


The Space Between Love and the End of the World

by irisbleufic



Category: Everything Is Illuminated (2005), Everything is Illuminated - Jonathan Safran Foer
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon Jewish Character, Fix-It, Inspired by Real Events, Jewish Character, LGBTQ Jewish Character(s), Literature, M/M, Post-Book(s), Post-Canon Fix-It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-04-01
Updated: 2013-10-27
Packaged: 2017-12-30 16:01:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 60,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1020626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Illumination isn't enough; the trick is to open your eyes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Space Between Love and the End of the World

**Author's Note:**

> This series was written over about three weeks in April of 2007. My friend Yaroslava ([ **angharadd**](http://angharadd.livejournal.com/) on LiveJournal) served as my consultant and translator for the Russian and Ukrainian phrases appearing in this text; I'm forever in her debt. 
> 
> The first words of this series are intended as a direct extension of the end of the novel:
> 
>  
> 
> _. . . Do you understand? I am complete with happiness, and it is what I must do, and I will do it. Do you understand me? I will walk without noise, and I will open the door in darkness, and I will_

_find you, I will find you, I will find you._

_Love (guilelessly),  
Alex_

 

*****

**The Spaces Amid Love, 1999**

It had been a year since the respective vanishings and deaths of Alexander P and his father, or Alexander P and his son. In a city better suited to falling in love and raising one's family, no one could be entirely sure which had died and which had vanished; which was the father and which was the son. Still, they had every reason to feel sorry for those who had been left behind: Humble Mother, Little Igor, and Sasha.

Life moved on—or, in some cases, moved nowhere at all. Each morning, Humble Mother boarded the same bus to a distant village, and each evening, she returned home to her two sons. Little Igor, once very silent, had taken to speaking in volumes. Sasha, once talkative, had taken to speaking in silence. Sammy Davis Junior, Junior, the unfortunately named canine member of the household, became sane.

For Sasha, all of this had, of course, become unbearable. The touring agency begun by his grandfather, Alexander P, and continued by his father, Alexander P, was the sole legacy left to him, but one of the elder Alexanders had locked it upon last leaving and somewhere dispensed with the key. That somewhere was not with Sasha.

So, the agency sat silent, box upon box of customer records and lost property sealed behind window glass in wretched need of a cleaning. Once in a while, on his way home from the beach, no longer frequenting the city's premier nightclubs, Sasha would pause before the awning and peer inside. It had occurred to him that he would be perfectly within his rights to break the glass and claim whatever remained. It had been a year since his grandfather's death or vanishing, and longer since his father's.

Sasha stepped closer and peered at the abandoned, messy desk. He recognized some of the papers visible amidst the chaos, but he did not notice the old book until the headlights of a passing car flashed through the window and into the darkened office like sunlight through deep water. _The Book of Future Occurrences_ , read the letters on the cracked leather spine.

To the best of his knowledge, this book didn't exist, or perhaps it had been stolen along with the rest of the contents of a box labeled IN CASE on a train from Lvov to Prague. Or perhaps he had been the one to draw it from the box that night, more than a year ago, or perhaps it had been slipped into his back pocket, or his father's, or his grandfather's, when none of them had been looking. If he squinted hard enough, he could make out bits of peanut shell in the thick dust beside it.

 _I know_ , thought Sasha. _I will find a criminal who is deft in the behavior of pricking locks. Hopelessly he will not have a premium weapon._

Obtaining the book proved simple, but whether Sasha found a criminal or wedged the back window, which may or may not have been open, I cannot say. Sasha took the book to the beach and sat down on the sand—which was indeed soft as lips, though not necessarily a woman's.

He opened it and read:

**THE WAY THE END OF THE WORLD ACTUALLY COMES**

You will answer this letter. You will tell me, again,  
exactly what you think. You will tell me if your father  
took your money. Whether he did or did not, you will  
not return the money I am sending (again). You will give  
some of it to Humble Mother and Little Igor, who speaks,  
but not to you and not with kind words. You will think  
about what you really think. You will tell me that what  
your grandfather wrote about your not writing to me  
anymore is a lie, or in the very least a misunderstanding.  
You will tell me that the last words of the letter are yours,  
that you make good your own promise that we no longer  
tell each other lies, that you will know that this fiction  
for once is not a lie, or at least not this part of it. You  
will remember the kind of story that you once wanted  
me to make, and you will know that I am trying to make  
it. You will tell me exactly what you feel. You will

 

*****

_18 March 1999_

_Dear Jonathan,_

_I broke my promise about talking about writing last time, and this time I must break it again. However, I must adventure to say that I am not in the least spleened by what you have written, although I wish that it is not to be part of the not-so-premium book we have written. I am telling you exactly what I think, especially about the book. Sammy Davis Junior, Junior did not even like it._

_The story we are making is not over, although Grandfather was very determining on that matter. He seemed to think that dying would mean he could make the rest of the story for me —and you, and Mother, and Little Igor (who is speaking to me, Jonathan, and not kindly, exactly as you have said). For your records, Father has taken most of my currency, but he has dropped a few pieces that I am still finding when I return home at night from roosting at the beach. The beach is a difficult place to roost now. I find myself imagining that it is the grass again, that I am in Trachimbrod with you watching the stars._

_I will tell you exactly what I think, and what I think is that I am very spleened at having to watch the stars alone. I know that the word spleen spleens you in bucketfuls, which is why I am using it so vociferously. The point of this paragraph (I am learning a lot in my new English course) is entirely to spleen you. I hope it is a splashing success._

_This paragraph has a new point, which I have also learned in my new English course, which it also happens is a writing course (because, if you remember, it was I who was born to become a writer). The point of this paragraph is to let you know the third and final exact thing that I think, and that thing is what I feel. I will tell you exactly what I feel, even though I have told you a thousand fucking times already, Jonathan. You are Safran, and I am the Gypsy girl. (That was expressively for effect.)_

_In concluding, you are telling me that you would like to make this story faithful, I am telling you exactly what I feel, and somehow I think that we are saying is the same. That is a foolproof ending sentence._

_Love (and that is repetition, which is important for dull readers),  
Alex_

 

*****

**Falling in Love at the End of the World, 2000**

And it came to pass that my grandfather had, in all his unfruitful affairs and in his single over-fruitful orgasm, taught me something of a lesson. The completed phrase must have been this: _I will change_. There is also a list of amendments to rival Brod's list of sadnesses, but the most important of these is that _I will not write any more lies_. Not in red lipstick, not on the walls and ceiling and bedstead, not on my skin.

Not on your skin, either, Alex.

And it came to pass that I did not go back to work on the first day after New Year's. I took a cab to JFK, booked a ticket, and began the tedious process of passing through security and waiting at an overcrowded gate. Snowstorms have caused some interesting delays, even for international flights. Lacking you, I am alone with my diary.

I have begun to think about starting my own Book of Recurrent Dreams. I realize that this is impossible, though, because my dreams of late have become your dreams; I know this because I wake from them feeling as if I have traveled worlds in one night. I dream of

 **1:1** — _Lying in the grass in Trachimbrod, under the stars_. You are  
beside me, this new you, saying nothing, although you said nothing  
that night, and so it is not peculiar that you should say nothing on  
this night, either. But you are facing me, and, as I realize this, I turn  
to face you and ask where the white lines between the stars have  
gone. You tell me that they have gone where Brod has gone, dry  
in the dust of no remembering. I tell you that I remember, I _do_ ,  
and you say, no, writing lies is not the same as remembering. I say,  
look, it's artifice to make the possible truth more appealing and  
poignant—do you know that word, poignant? This new you knows  
the word, and he also knows who he is, though he is surprised when  
I turn to him—that is, when Safran turns to the Gypsy girl, in the  
tall grass under the stars of Trachimbrod—and connect us with  
a white line, which is a symbol, and what it stands for bears no  
repeating, because I am not a dim reader, Alex. Come find me

 **1:2** — _Standing in the train station in Odessa, waiting_. You are  
the one late this time, but I couldn't care less. The pins and needles  
in my legs begin to make the story faithful, as you put it. I think  
about what was taken from me the last time I was here, but I feel  
no sadness —only a touch of regret, and maybe some anger at the  
big fucking assholes who steal battered, unassuming old boxes.  
This is what I am thinking when I see you enter the station, your  
eyes much darker than I remember them, but somehow more  
bright. I try to think of something to say as you come to me,  
as you find me, but all I can think is that I have not seen  
you in person in two years and that we have really only seen  
each other once before in person and oh good god you found  
me youfoundme ordidifindyou we'renotdimreaderswewill

 

*****

"Jonathan," says Alex, not mispronouncing it. " _Jonathan_."

Jonathan wakes, but he doesn't open his eyes. What he knows is that he is warm, and safe in spite of where he is, and very tired. He knows that his train arrived at a late hour, and that Alex arrived at a later hour still. The letter had arrived the day before. The _day_ before. He hadn't actually written it at the airport, but he had known it would be like that, and it had been like that. He loved New York —yes, finally, to speak love with _authority —_but he hated JFK. He knows that Alex took them to the hotel next to Heritage Tours, and he knows he kept his mouth shut so they wouldn't have to pay double.

Alex's lips are soft, but not precisely like sand, against Jonathan's cheek.

"It is not time to make sleep anymore," he whispers. "Although you are a premium sleeper."

"All night long, baby," Jonathan replies, finding his voice thick. The laughter escapes him before he can attempt to hold it in. His sides shake, somewhat subdued by Alex's partial weight. He finds his hands and flexes his fingers—both arms alive—and presses his palms to Alex's shoulder blades, which he imagines pale in the dawn light, still laughing.

Alex is laughing with him, not quietly. You would think someone had dropped a potato.

"I think you have taken the part about making the story faithful to heart."

"Yes, point taken," Jonathan says, half opening one eye. He can see Alex peering at him with a look that is somewhere between sheer disbelief and love even more authoritative than Jonathan's for New York, or Brod's for Yankel, or one and the same as both.

"Unless you would like to call me All Day Long, in which case we will get on with the faithfulness and improve it by many jumps."

"Leaps and bounds. You mean leaps and bounds."

"I mean what I say. My English teacher tries his best, but I spleen him with—"

For that, Alex gets a light punch in the side, and they both start laughing harder.

"I can't believe I came out here," Jonathan says. "I'm in Odessa."

"Falling in love," Alex adds, and kisses the corner of Jonathan's mouth.

 _Yes_ , Jonathan thinks, turning his head, eyes open wide. _I will_.


	2. Truth, Forgiveness, Love

 

 

**Truth**

It's terrifying, standing there on the spot as Alex approaches—eyes dark and bright, exactly as imagined—because Jonathan knows exactly what he's about to say, and it's going to hurt like absolute hell, which Jonathan doesn't even believe in.

"I found you," Alex announces, his voice ragged with fatigue, and possibly the remnant of tears. "I am very glad you were not stupid enough to travel into Lvov. Father has taken the car. I still have no license, and no Grandfather, either."

Jonathan feels his throat tighten. It's happening much, much too soon.

"I'm sorry," he manages, but the tears are already there. "I'm sorry I—"

"You are being foolish, Jonathan," Alex says, although he doesn't sound as if he has convinced himself that he means it. His eyes drop to the concrete, apparently studying their shoes: his scuffed and no longer up-to-date, Jonathan's painfully the opposite. "You could not have known he would cut his hands. You could not have been here."

"I should have," Jonathan grits out, and by now the tears are a ridiculous flood finding the hollows of his cheeks, the lines of his jaw, the toes of his over-polished shoes. He wants to reach for Alex, but his arms feel dead, both of them, and he doesn't know if Alex has breached this particular _will not_. It hangs in the air like smoke half a century old.

"Jonathan," Alex says, his voice soft, and it's only this time that the impact hits. Perhaps it's the strain of tears that Alex refuses to shed where they're standing, perhaps…

" _Jonathan_ ," Jonathan repeats, wiping his chin with the back of his hand. "You said my name."

"I have said your name previously, so why do you compliment on it now?"

All at once, Jonathan wants to correct him and kiss him, but neither happens. Alex's eyes are brimming, but his tears do not fall. Instead, he reaches for one of Jonathan's bags, which Jonathan clutched in his lap the entire long trip from Prague.

"It's all right, I can handle—"

"It is an extreme walk, and you will tire yourself," Alex warns, for the first time attempting a smile. "Do not say I did not foretell you."

"Forewarn me," Jonathan says, handing over one of his bags. "Thanks."

For the briefest moment, Alex doesn't let go of his hand, but it's enough. Jonathan leans forward, tries to exhale, hopes his closed eyes won't stop him and that Alex will meet him halfway. What happens instead is that he almost falls forward, and Alex catches him.

"We must not be tardy here," Alex says, gravely, and starts for the exit. "We will wait."

 _We will_ , thinks Jonathan, blindly, half thrilled and half afraid.

 

 

 

**Forgiveness**

Alex wasn't lying about the walk. Not only was it long; it was torture.

"Your stomach is talkative, Jonathan. Did you not eat a premium meal on the train?" The sarcasm in Alex's voice is unmistakable, and Jonathan replays the last letter in his head.

"No," Jonathan admits, trying to keep pace with Alex's long, sure strides. "I was too nervous."

"Nervous about big fucking assholes trying to steal your bags?"

"No," admits Jonathan, evasively. "Just nervous."

"I observe this," Alex says, and slows ever so slightly.

Heritage Touring is an unimpressive storefront, not least because dust and disuse have had their way with the interior. Indecipherable graffiti has been scrawled across the glass, but it does not seem to have been broken into or otherwise touched. Jonathan looks away.

"Do you live above the business?" he asks, grasping at straws—or strings, or hope.

"No," Alex says, heading for the next-door entrance. "Mother and Iggy do not live here."

Jonathan realizes that the establishment they're entering is a hotel. He glances around the lobby, confused. It's reasonably clean, but it's not four-star, or even three-star. Alex asks the bellhop a question in rapid Ukrainian, or more likely the local Russian dialect—questions, Jonathan knows the sound of—and then thanks the man for his response.

"They are serving in the restaurant," Alex tells him. "We go this way."

"Ah," said Jonathan, suddenly less hungry than he was on the train. "Do they…um, should I even bother to ask?"

"I think that here they have caught up with certain vegetarian miracles."

"Oh," Jonathan says, stunned. "Thanks."

Alex doesn't turn his head fast enough to hide his second smile of the night.

Dinner isn't excellent. Jonathan isn't sure that he believes this is vegetarian sausage, but it doesn't smell or taste like his vague childhood memories of meat, so it suffices. The potatoes are mashed, or something close to it, so there's no chance of them rolling onto the floor. There are even some dubious greens, steamed to the point of wilting. Both starving, they eat in complete silence.

"Do your mother and your brother know you've come to meet me?" Jonathan asks, finally unable to cope with the unanswered question that's licking about them like flame.

"No," Alex replies, firmly, and finishes his sausage, which is more or less the same as Jonathan's. "Perhaps tomorrow, but not tonight. I need time to cogitate."

 _I need time_ , Jonathan thinks, fumbling at his fanny pack for enough money to leave on the table. _Lots of it, a night of it, fifty years of it_.

"I do not need your currency to pay for dinner," Alex tells him, reaching for Alex's wrist. His fingers make contact, first flinching, then grasping. It is the first time they have touched in the hour and a half since Jonathan's arrival, and sparks flare.

Jonathan slaps the bills onto the table, too much, always too much.

"We're getting a room. You do the talking, I do the paying, remember?"

 

**Love**

The room is small, but it doesn't smell of smoke. It has a single bed, almost queen-size, and a small window overlooking part of the city. They stand in the doorway for some moments, taking in the darkness. Alex finally reaches for the light switch. Jonathan closes the door, locking the darkness in the chilly hall.

Without a word, Alex sets Jonathan's bags next to the entrance to the tiny, musty bathroom and swears—"Fuck," perfectly comprehensible, but perfectly Ukrainian—when one of them falls over. He reaches for it, but Jonathan is already there.

"Would you forget about the fucking bags?" he asks, catching Alex by the shoulders, bringing them both up to full height. Alex isn't as tall as he would like to be, but he's still taller than Jonathan, and even the short distance between their mouths seems daunting.

"I have already forgotten what they remember like," Alex says, excruciatingly honest, and to have his words used for so tender a purpose, Jonathan finds, is humbling.

The kiss is not at all like in the movies, which means that it's _exactly_ like every film ever made. Like Rhett and Scarlett, or probably like Abbott and Costello, they stumble into the bags, swear a lot, and revert to nervous laughter when Alex swings Jonathan up in his arms with considerable difficulty and carries him over to the bed. Alex tries to lower Jonathan, but the strain in his arms gives way at the last minute, and Jonathan finds the mattress almost firm enough to knock the breath from him. He starts to laugh, but Alex is mortified.

"Please, be forgiving of this, I did not intend to amuse—"

Jonathan catches his hand before he can get very far, and it's Alex's turn to land with a startled _oof_ on the hard mattress. They're lying side by side, face to face, and even if it were grass and stars and darkness that held them, there would be no hiding.

"Is this our secret?" Jonathan asks, knowing he'll drown if the answer is _no_.

"I would say it is not so secret," Alex says, almost miserably.

"Your grandfather told you to do this."

"Without telling me to do it."

Tentatively, Jonathan places his hand over Alex's racing heart.

"Because it is what you will do?"

"Because it was what I would not do," Alex sighs, relief spilling from him in a rush of tears, "but not anymore, not—Jonathan. I told you, I have not been c—"

"Made love," Jonathan corrects him, beginning to work at Alex's shirt buttons.

"—made love," whispers Alex, harshly, "and you—"

"Want this," Jonathan gasps between an onslaught of kisses and the mystery of his own buttons come undone. "And will do."

Every touch is slowed, somehow, to a silent unraveling. Even once they are naked, which is in no time at all, the air does not stir. Only their hands stir, frantic and grasping. Alex's skin is hot against Jonathan's, soft with fever-dampness and bone-deep tremors.

"Shhh," Jonathan murmurs, and finds that as much as he would like to keep one hand at Alex's hip, his belly, his cock, Alex is drawing both of Jonathan's arms up, up to wrap around his shoulders, and he keeps his own hands just so: one between Jonathan's shoulder blades, one at the small of Jonathan's back. They kiss, too close for words.

A few moments of breathless movement and it's finished, Alex sobbing something incoherent and perfect, not in his imperfect English. Jonathan makes scarcely a sound, but he's glad when his mind begins to clear that his glasses, too, are gone. Alex has gotten some of his breath back, is murmuring to Jonathan, "Don't cry, don't cry."

"I'm not," Jonathan says, his voice raw, finding some of his fingers in Alex's hair and some at the nape of his neck. He combs through with reverence, perhaps as Alex's grandfather had done. "I'm not. Alex, I'm not."

Alex rests his forehead against Jonathan's, the rise and fall of his chest between them slowing with his breath. "Good. Because I make enough tears for both of us."

 _All of us_ , Jonathan thinks, kissing him now as the electricity shuts down for the night.


	3. Half a Breath, Half a Step

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of this chapter alludes to [**this translation**](http://poetry.uazone.net/chubai_1.html) of a Hryhoriy Chubai poem.

**To:** alex@heritagetouring.ua  
 **From:** trachimbrodtales@yahoo.com  
 **Date:** 15-Jan-2000 21:30  
 **Subject:** Still Falling in Love, January 2000

 

...although I might as well abandon the stupidity of artifice, because this is where the story ceases to be a book and begins to be true. I'd like to tell you a tale that you already know, Alex, because you were there as the truth began to happen, and you are still here as it continues to happen. In fact, I think you're the one who makes it true. Me, I'm just the fucking scribe to the brilliance of your Shakespeare. No more John Holmes comparisons, got it? If you had a cock that big, I'd have run screaming. No offense. Also, I think you ought to take down the [Heritage website](http://www.whoisaugustine.com/heritagetouring/). Why the hell didn't I insist on email in the first place? I hope you make it to the library this week and answer this message. I've been home from JFK for two hours, and the silence is intolerable.

(To use a blatant cliché, I miss you already.)

I don't think I knew where I was that morning, at least not at first, but waking up to you squashing the breath out of me was at least half a clue. The hotel staff weren't too pleased with the late check out, were they? I'm surprised we heard the knocking. Are all Ukrainian showerheads designed to flay the user alive? I think I've got scars on my back. At least the more delicate bits of your anatomy had sufficient protection at the time. Hey, _what_? I don't believe your incredulousness for a second. I think about how you taste, or maybe the noises you make for something resembling variety, at least once a day. Do me a favor: tilt the monitor, check your reflection, and wipe that smirk off your face. I'm not used to this sweet nothings bullshit. I'm _not_.

Anyway, you hadn't told me the weather would be so gorgeous. Maybe I was just that glad to be away from all this fucking snow. We spent at least half an hour walking west in a straight line, at which point you admitted that wasn't the way to your house and you had no idea how you were going to introduce me to your mother or explain what I was doing there.

"Ah," I said. "That's…not reassuring."

"Would you prefer to be expository on my behalf?"

"Explanatory, and no, not especially. I don't know her."

"Can you arrest these corrections for _five seconds_ , please?"

"Sorry," I muttered. I felt like a big fucking asshole. You can smile now.

You sighed, then, looking sorry yourself. "Jonathan, this is not effortless."

"I'm under no illusion that it is," I said, and God, I wish you hadn't pulled your hand away.

"It will be more expeditious if we rent a taxi," you said, scanning the boulevard.

I couldn't disagree with that. I wonder what you'll make of New York cabs. The ride was kind of a blur, but what's stuck with me is how gorgeous Odessa is. I think I was too hungry to properly pay attention on the walk from the train station to the hotel, but honestly, I'm still stunned by the architecture. I think my jaw about hit the floor when you pointed out the opera house. You said the old library—now what, some kind of archaeological museum?—is also worth a look. I thought, _Ten days to do all of this_.

"And we will go to the beach and roost," you added, knowing the right word and not using it. And I know you're grinning now, just like you were then.

"I'd like that," I said, and took your hand underneath the suitcase we were holding between us. You squeezed my fingers a little too hard, but I was glad.

I don't know how to say this without sounding as stuck-up as I must usually do, but the house was a lot nicer than I'd been expecting. It was tiny, but it had this…um, shiny-white-paneling-thing going on, and a shingled roof, and garden gnomes. Man, garden gnomes? I didn't snap out of it till you translated the real estate agent's sign, at which point I didn't know what to say. "Garden gnomes!" wouldn't have been appropriate. Maybe you wish I had said that anyway, tense as the moment was?

"My mother is selling the home so that she can move closer to her establishment of work," you explained. "She will take Iggy with her. There is a man in the village who is expressive with his carnal interest in her."

"I hope he wants more than just her body," I said, fishing for money to pay the driver.

"He thinks that she is exceedingly beautiful," you said, beating me to it. We got out of the cab and stood staring at the house for a few minutes. Those gnomes are surreal. And that's when the front door opened and a teenage version of you peered out.

You looked like you wanted to run, but I knew you wouldn't. Iggy was scowling at you, but it didn't last long, because he kept glancing at me and his confusion ultimately ruined his scowl. I wanted to take your hand again, but I knew I couldn't. Iggy said something to you, holding the door open and gesturing.

"He wants us to stop gasping like morons and proceed," you explained, so we did.

The kitchen wasn't as I pictured it, either. Some of the objects you'd described over time in your letters were still there: my eyes went immediately to the cookie tin. I wondered if you'd begun a new stash of money there; only much later that night did I find out that you had. I'm sorry for getting up and wandering around like that, by the way. I bumped into half a dozen things and could've awakened your family if they slept as lightly as you.

Your brother hung around only long enough for you to make strained introductions in the living room; he dashed down the back all and incomprehensible music blared from hidden speakers. Your mother, the small woman in the blanket-covered chair in front of the television, gave a weary sigh and rose to her feet. Alex, don't poke me for this next time you see me, but I swear to God all I could think was that she looked like I imagine Augustine would have looked in middle age. Dark hair, faintly lined eyes, tired smile.

She said something to you, and you said to me, "So this is the Jew who writes you letters." She looked at me while you said it, which was more surreal than the gnomes.

"Hello, M—" I had to bite back _Mrs. Perchov_ , because that's probably not true anymore, strictly speaking "—my pleasure. To, um, meet you, finally."

I'm certain that your translation must have done the greeting more justice, because she took my hand, shook it hesitantly, smiled, and then—hadn't been expecting this, oh boy—tugged me in and hugged me. I'll never forget the look you had on your face; I wanted to ask if it was because of the look I must've been giving you over her shoulder, or if you'd never seen her hug a complete stranger before. She smelled like something from Caswell & Massey that my grandmother always wore— _muguet_. Lily of the Valley. Do you have those in the Ukraine? Run a web search; much easier than finding bitches.

Speaking of which, I _was_ wondering at that point when Sammy Davis Junior, Junior would bound in and save the day, but it was at that point that your mother let go of me and said something else to you, which you translated as, "We regret to instruct you that the seeing-eye bitch has recently gone looking for Grandfather again, and has not yet come back. But if she were presented here, she would have —" you paused at that point and winked at me "—tried to clean your glasses."

"Thank her for me when she gets back," I said, smiling at your mother. She looked very tired, but there wasn't any malice behind her eyes. Exceedingly beautiful.

I wish you'd given me fair warning that she'd sit us down to lunch, but then, I guess that was a more logical option than dashing back out again. It was at this point that you explained, while your mother poked and stirred things at the stove, that it would be best not to waste more money on hotels until before I would be leaving. I didn't want you to say it, you didn't want to be saying it, yet still you said it, and I think our eyes were still locked hard when your mother set bowls of something that looked like complicated oatmeal down in front of us. Actually, it smelled like heaven, if heaven smells of apples. Or exists. See, this is another one of those questions I can't believe I didn't ask you at one in the morning after we finished arguing about how thin the walls were or weren't.

"This is _kutya_ ," you said, stirring the contents of your bowl. "We eat it for the procurement of excellent fertility in the New Year," you continued. "It is, I believe, a true vegetarian miracle—the only thing we eat at the holiday time that does not possess meat."

Apple, wheat, honey, spice. I was too hungry to ask or even _care_. "Tell your mother this is fabulous," I said with my mouth half full, table manners out the window. You did. She said, using your mouth and her own eyes, "My thanks are limitless."

As were mine, especially when Iggy showed up with his headphones on and ate with us.

I leave this now in hope that your time zone is being reasonable. Mine, unfortunately, isn't. It'll take me weeks to learn how to sleep without you. I may dream of you just before dawn comes; like you, the light is guileless.

Love. Love? _Love_ (never looks the way I want it to sound),  
Jonathan

 

 

*****

**To:** trachimbrodtales@yahoo.com  
 **From:** alex@heritagetouring.ua  
 **Date:** 18-Jan-2000 16:55  
 **Subject:** Re: Still Falling in Love, January 2000

 

Dear Jonathan,

I will keep the website for now, because I would lose this address of email along with it. I circumspect you did not request email in the first place because you were in love with the romantic, antiquarian idea of letters on paper. Your transgression on Middle Aged manuscripts in the archaeology-museum-once-library has remained near to me; in fact, I am still endeavoring (?) to grasp the conception of no punctuation marks, as I have very recently learned to use many of them properly in English. You will note my finely specified semicolon above. Being originally Greek in history, it is no stranger here in Odessa. I am beginning to experiment with metaphorics and such, but I can't think of any that will fit your cock. I will have to suffice by saying—and making you frown—that it is premium, because I take pleasure with that word as I take pleasure with your cock, and now this sentence is thoroughly sprinting on in hope that you are blushing.

The Clumsy One eats like a horse when he is very famined, or perhaps (as you often style your wording) like Sammy Davis Junior, Junior, who decided to return home the day after you returned home to New York. She had lost her collar with the new tag reading OFFICIOUS BITCH like the shirt, which she masticated not long after the first time you left. I devise that she has become sane because she has in eventuality become depressed. Everyone has been leaving: you, Father, Grandfather, and in likelihood me. She will accompany Mother (who has told me to give you the notice that you may dub her Irina on the next occurrence, which is her name) and Iggy to their new village, which I do not actually think is dubbed anything. I cannot find road signs from the bus window since we attempted to discover them on the next day, which day I fervently (?) miss and do not intend as a cliché. I intend to imply, Jonathan, that by extension I miss you.

I hope that you were not surreptitiously frightened by Mother's new mate. He is very large, very loud, and did not give me enough time to translate recklessly well. However, it did not escape my apprehension that he was enthusiastic about America, so I had pause to spare you many of his most spleening questions, such as "Do you have any premium cigarettes?" and "Are all of the women severely blonde, identical to the television show about guarding beach life?"

(I know that you were pleased to discover the beach in Odessa that night, Jonathan, and that no one approached us in the manner that Grandfather once approached me. I am understanding of having ghosts, but I was incoherently glad that even spirits see fit to remain at a distance when the spaces amid love are closed by the breath of the living.)

Our many discussions the next day about schools of accounting did not seem conclusive, though you have left me with many fruitful brochures and applicable papers. I do not think you were drastically impressed by our visit to the university, where I will touch-wood be finishing completely this summer. My English professor says that you are _top-notch_ , and I surmise that much of the very quick English speech that he elucidated to you was not meant for my ears. I live in hope that you will impart these informalities to me in the proximal future. I will dangle in your face the promise of many rapid things he said to me in Russian concerning your top-notchness, and also his silent and intent envy that I had been carnal with you. I tacitly did not mention that we are not merely carnal, but that we make love of the many variations that one can discern in a week.

(This is what you call _poking_ , if I am accurate.)

I have enjoyed this tale so far, Jonathan. I have noted with cluefulness that you ceased when you did so that I would continue. The best words for inscribing your last days under Mother's roof are, perhaps, _in my arms_ , for I did endeavor (! useful web-search claims that I am precise) to keep you within them as fully and often as I was able. At this point, my narrative is shattered by awkward parenthetics and unprosperous discourse, but I must proceed with the admonition that these hours since your taxi sped away have seemed as merely a half step back into lonely obliviousness. The white line painted on the road becomes the white line through the grass, through the sand, through the sea, and my love, my Safran, it will only be a little while until our breaths will close the space again.

Limitlessly,  
Alex

P.S. Can you instruct me in how to make an address as appropriate as yours?!


	4. Half-Steps Back

**8 January 2000, 10:39 PM**

"I hope he isn't allergic to dog hair," says Alex's mother, shaking out the heavy wool blankets. "Sammy crawls into the linen cabinet and sleeps on them. You need to train her better, Alexi."

"What's she saying?" Jonathan asks, sounding somewhat distressed. He clutches his suitcase like he can't decide where to leave it, so Alex finally takes it off of him and sets it at the foot of his bed beside his backpack. There are times when Jonathan seems completely helpless, and Alex thinks it's a wonder he can navigate his way around Europe alone, if a tourist-trap like Prague even counts.

"Yes, yes, but he listens to the Clumsy One better than he listens to me." His mother makes a face—not a reassuring one—so he turns to Jonathan and says, "She hopes that dog-hairs do not make you sneeze."

"No, no," Jonathan says, almost relieved. "I'm not allergic to dogs. Just afraid of them. Well, not of Sammy. Not anymore, I mean," he adds, addressing Jonathan's mother, as if she'll understand him. Alex translates quickly, and his mother just nods, finishing the makeshift bed on the floor.

"Tell him that I'm sorry that it's not very soft," she says, then gives Jonathan a polite nod. "Sleep well."

"Good night," Alex says, turning to find Jonathan looking lost again. "She wishes you a premium repose," he explains, watching until his mother has left the room, closing the door behind her. "She is also apologetic that the floor is not like feathers."

"Like...feathers?" Jonathan echoes, already seated on the edge of Alex's bed. He unties his brown shoes, which do not match his trousers and his jacket at all, and sets them neatly at the foot of the bed beside his suitcase. Alex has no idea why he finds the image so compelling, but he's already closing the space between them—so _many_ spaces closed lately —and unable to take his eyes off of Jonathan.

"Like the insides of pillows," Alex explains, taking a seat beside him. The bed creaks gently. In a far corner of Alex's mind, a dozen tiny alarms break into cacaphonous warning. It would be very easy to kiss Jonathan, to whisper against Jonathan's mouth that his mother will fall asleep in front of the television and that Iggy will be preoccupied by his headphones. "Comfortable," he adds, his voice breaking a little.

"Sorry, that was a stupid question," Jonathan says, removing his glasses. He holds them out to Alex and asks, "Can you put these somewhere they won't get knocked down or lost? If Sammy comes back, I don't want her to think they're a chew-toy."

"I'm still very sorry about your passports," Alex mutters, taking the glasses. He opens the top drawer of his rickety nightstand and drops them inside. His socks and underwear muffle their landing, and Jonathan's momentary look of panic melts into restrained laughter.

"That was ages ago," he says, starting to unbutton his shirt. "Don't worry about it. I have a new one."

Alex swallows, following the progress of Jonathan's hands. He'd heard that Americans were very forthright about sex, but he somehow hadn't been prepared for Jonathan to be one of those, even once all the barriers were down. It's thrilling and disturbing all at once. Alex shifts uncomfortably; they're not in a hotel, and his little brother _is_ at the opposite end of the hall. It's as if Jonathan has read his thoughts.

"Jonathan, I do not know if this is wise," he says, but one of his hands has already drifted over to touch Jonathan's chest, flattening over the warm tremor of his heartbeat. "The walls—"

"Seem pretty sturdy," interrupts Jonathan, pressing both hands over Alex's, stroking the back, fingers, and wrist. "I can't even tell if your mother's still watching television."

Alex holds his breath, inclining his head toward the door.

"She is not," he says, hardly daring to breathe. "Or—no, she is watching, but the sound is very minimal."

"Then I'd say we don't have much to worry about," Jonathan murmurs, drawing Alex's hand up to his mouth, pressing his lips to the heart of Alex's palm. "As long as we're quiet," he whispers, and Alex's spine prickles with equal parts longing and terror. Moments later, he is kissing Jonathan and thinking about the night before at the hotel, and the shower that morning. Some of the longing gathers urgently in his throat.

"Shhh," Jonathan whispers, ducking his head to nuzzle Alex's collarbone. His left hand is tangled in Alex's hair, and his right slips deftly up Alex's shirt, coming to rest over his belly, then lower. He catches the button of Alex's jeans with his thumb—an almost impossible feat, Alex thinks under the haze of his shaking breaths and the rising urge to scream—and slips his fingers inside with a sigh against Alex's cheek.

"Oh shit, oh _fucking_ shit," Alex gasps, the fragmented Russian escaping in counterpoint to Jonathan's equally ragged breaths against his shoulder. He _thinks_ that Jonathan is begging him to be quiet ("...Alex, or someone will..."), but his brain can't seem to hold onto English and the madness of desire all at once. He's on his back now, his head against the pillow, and Jonathan is pressed up against him, one leg thrown across Alex's, his mouth everywhere at once (ear jaw cheek lips _neck_ ) while his hand caresses and strokes (hip side thigh balls _cock_ ). He clutches at Jonathan with both hands, shuddering. "I _can't —_"

"What, what?" Jonathan is asking softly, frantically, tightening his grip and picking up speed. "I can't understand you, is this okay...?"

"Jonfen—" uncontrollable and embarrassing, that stupid mistake "— _yes_ , I intend to mean—"

"Shhh," Jonathan says again, reassuringly, and kisses him full on the lips, moving their bodies together now in time with his hand. _I want you to come so hard you won't_ remember _my name_ , says the kiss, in very clear language that isn't English or Russian, but might be a little of both. With his eyes screwed shut, almost choking, Alex _does_.

It's some time before Alex regains control of his fingers, but when he does, he finds that they're already helping Jonathan unfasten _his_ trousers. Jonathan stops undressing them both just long enough to use some stray item of clothing to clean up the mess. Alex closes his eyes, concentrating on Jonathan's hands as they encircle his ankles, twisting. His socks are the last to go, and then Jonathan slides up the length of Alex's body and Jonathan's warm skin is pressed against his and they kiss, and kiss, and _kiss_.

 

**9 January 2000, 10:39 PM**

"It's beautiful here," Jonathan breathes, the sea-breeze catching in his hair. He rests his chin on his arms, rocking a bit where he sits on the sand. Alex would like to scoot closer, to put an arm around him, but it would not be wise. He has heard of...certain couples being caught alone and taunted, or beaten, or worse. His father's occasional drunken challenges were bad enough. _Comrade_. Alex shivers, wrapping his arms more tightly around his knees. Jonathan is the one who shifts closer, sighing.

"It's all right, you know," he says, almost too softly to be heard. "I understand. I really do. It's just that I'm not used to this kind of thing. I mean, in New York, nobody says anything."

Alex looks at him, eyes widening, but he knows he shouldn't be shocked. If there are homosexual accountants and garbage men, then there must be homosexual _everything_. Suddenly, New York is an even more splendid place in his regard than it was previously, and he prompts Jonathan to continue. "Is this true?"

"Yeah," says Jonathan, smiling slightly, letting his eyes drift back out to sea. "You'll see. I'll hold your hand and nobody will think anything of it. Well, maybe some asshole tourists from the Midwest or South or something, but they're usually too busy or too lost to care."

"Lost?" Alex asks, genuinely perplexed. "Do they not make use of New York's premium maps?"

"They don't bother to learn how to read them," Jonathan replies, almost laughing. "They wander around all goggle-eyed and ask the first person in a uniform they come across how to find the Empire State Building. It's fucking hilarious."

"Ah," Alex says, grinning, because it really isn't so unfamiliar after all. "Tourists in Odessa are like this, especially ones who do not find our letters legible."

"Your English _has_ gotten better," says Jonathan, which Alex finds irrelevant, but a compliment nonetheless. "I mean, you're using fewer of the wrong words for what you mean. In this case, 'legible' is probably okay, but it typically refers to how well you can read print or handwriting."

Alex frowns, digging in the sand with the toe of his shoe. "What do you mean?"

"You've seen my handwriting, right?" Jonathan asks, gesturing with his right hand. "Could you read it at first?"

"To tell you the truth, no, I could not," Alex admits, grinning even harder. "But I've gotten used to it, and I think that it is much more legible to me than when we started out."

"Oh, you're a _loser_ ," Jonathan says, and tosses a handful of sand at him. "You're just doing it for shits and giggles now, aren't you?"

"Shits and giggles?" Alex asks, tilting his head. "Is this some relative of shitting a brick?"

"Yes," Jonathan says, exasperated, then shakes himself. "I mean, no! Not really. Kind of. Fuck, I don't know; I thought we were talking about you using the wrong words on purpose!"

"We are talking about many things," Alex murmurs, the laughter in his throat gone silent again. Jonathan is beautiful in ways that Alex knows he can't properly articulate in English, but Jonathan doesn't understand Russian except for rudimentary greetings and the word for _Jew_. He leans heavily on his arms, sighing. The sand is more sharp than soft tonight, driven by the breeze into their arms and faces. "I would talk about many more things, but you would not understand them, Jonathan."

"Like last night," Jonathan murmurs, trying to hide his smile behind his arms.

"Yes, I am referring to this," Alex says, mildly defensive. "I find it unfair that we must always speak English. There are many things I would like to say to you in my own language, if you would study it."

"I'd like to," Jonathan says, with simple honesty.

Alex looks up at him, narrowing his eyes. "Is _this_ true?"

"Yes," Jonathan says, scooting over just a touch more, and another space is closed.

 

**10 January 2000, 10:39 PM**

"That's all of them," Jonathan says, spreading the packets out in a fan pattern on Alex's bed. "They're the ones you'd have a decent chance at getting into as an international, anyway. A lot of U.S. business schools focus on scholarships for students from Eastern Europe and Asia. In New York alone, you're spoiled for choice. Also, this one," Alex adds, tapping the packet on the end, "isn't an application for a school. It's an application to the government for scholarships they offer for the same purpose."

"American accountants must be having shit for brains," Alex says, picking up the application with a tremor of fear in his chest. "Is this why they are wanting to give us currency for studying?"

"Well, no," Jonathan says, scratching his forehead. "But they do want to give foreign students a chance."

"There are not many universities in Odessa," Alex says, gathering the applications carefully into a single pile. "There is my university, Mechnikov, and there is an institute for marine studies and also one for law and also for refrigeration, but I would not have use for these."

"No," Jonathan agrees, stretching out on the mattress. "I suppose you wouldn't."

"Is the university from which you have graduated a premium university?" Alex asks, curious and nervous all at once. He knows that Jonathan is extremely intelligent, even though he hasn't learned much Russian or Ukrainian.

"Yeah, I guess," Jonathan admits, and the shutters that mean he's trying to protect Alex come down again. "I can show you around sometime, if you want."

"Sometime," Alex echoes, setting the intimidating stack of applications aside on the nightstand. "When do you think 'sometime' is, Jonathan?" Jonathan goes tense beside him, shutters turning to block out the pain.

"I don't know," Jonathan says, once again disarmingly honest. "It depends on you graduating this summer, and deciding if you want to do those applications for entry this autumn or next."

"I do not think this autumn will be possible," Alex admits, finding that he can't meet Jonathan's gaze. "I must make certain that mother and Iggy get settled in the new village."

"I understand," Jonathan says, unbelievably patient. He rolls onto his side and rests his hand on Alex's chest, his fingertips curling slightly. "You should make sure they're taken care of first. I'm sure I could come over here again in the autumn, as long as they give me the time off work, and then after that maybe I can see about a spring visit for you in '01 to look at some of these places and talk to professors—"

"That is an admirable plan, but we must take this one step at a time," Alex says, breathing fast. He isn't certain if it's Jonathan's touch or the prospect that this may _happen_ , or perhaps it's a combination of both. He finds the uncertainty frightening.

"Your grandfather believed in you," Jonathan says, resting his head on Alex's shoulder. He twines their fingers over Alex's heart, nuzzling and settling in as if he means to fall asleep. The moment is exceedingly fragile, and also exceedingly beautiful.

"Do _you_ believe in me?" Alex asks automatically, without thinking, in Russian.

" _Da_ ," comes the drowsy reply. Jonathan's voice has a delicate, perfect accent.

"I am glad to hear this," murmurs Alex, in English, and drifts in a sense of peace.


	5. Open Spaces

**To:** alex@heritagetouring.ua  
 **From:** trachimbrodtales@yahoo.com  
 **Date:** 20-Jan-2000 22:39  
 **Subject:** All you ever wanted to know about webmail ( & more)

 

Dear Alex,

Sure, I can teach you how to open a webmail account—that's what I have, in case you don't know what I'm talking about. You could go for an account through Yahoo, or you could choose from a number of other options (Hotmail is pretty popular). The instructions are fairly easy to follow once you manage to find a site with which you'd like to sign up. In fact, let's just keep it simple: mail.yahoo.com or www.hotmail.com, go knock yourself out. If you have trouble, let me know what screen name you'd like, and I'll set it up for you.

I'm glad you think _trachimbrodtales_ is appropriate instead of lame; somehow, I don't think they'd like it if I used my work email for writing love letters to my crazy Ukrainian boyfriend. I didn't come up with that, by the way; one of my co-workers did. Lisa is probably one of the closest things I have to a friend, and it's kind of difficult not to fess up when she corners you and asks you about your mysterious post-holiday trip. She knew about the first trip while we were still in school together, too, and I was able to tell her more about it (and about you) than I was able to tell my family. She thinks the way you talk sounds absolutely hilarious, so I have the feeling you're going to be rather popular by the time you get here. Do me a favor and disappoint them all by giving up thesaurus-abuse, pretty please? I'll make it worth your while (that's called _bribery with sexual favors_ , in case you're unfamiliar with the parlance).

Speaking of my family, my grandmother's getting a bit puzzled by my apparent obsession with Prague. She says I'm lucky that I was able to graduate a semester early, what with all the traveling I've been doing lately, and that the magazine even offered me a job. I think she's worried about me ending up a starving, perpetually unemployed artist. She keeps asking me if I've sold my novel, and I have to keep saying, no, not yet, because I don't have the heart to tell her I'm not _trying_ to sell it. That would involve telling her about you, and I don't think she's ready to hear that. She might never be. Again, though, I feel like a big fucking asshole, because you deserve better than me not having the spine to tell my family about you. Your mother and Iggy know more about me than my family knows about you. All they know is that I got a pen-pal out of the first trip, and when my mother remarked that I never talked about your letters anymore, I told her we've switched over to email instead. Which is the truth, but it's a half-truth. I'm doing better in the not-writing-lies department, but I suck when it comes to not telling them. And, let me tell you, there are things I would _rather_ suck at.

(See why I don't write humor? My jokes are fucking infantile.)

Okay, so, about the ending paragraph of your last email: what the _hell_ have you been hiding from me? Next thing I know, you'll tell me you've been taking a creative writing class, but I know that you haven't. I'm gradually admitting to myself that, yes, you were the one born to become a writer, and I was the one born to screw around with stupid versions of the past and write features and the occasional short story for a trendy magazine instead. I can't tell you how moving that was; I wish the book was _half_ that moving. Moving doesn't have to equal depressing, now I know. If I could put into a single sentence my awe at how much you've taught me over these past couple of years, I would consider my life's work finished. Your life's work, on the other hand, is just beginning. Do you really want to become an accountant? If that's what it takes to get you a student visa, hey, by all means. We'll figure out something from there. I know we will. I won't _let_ it be otherwise. I've fucked up the past plenty, but I refuse to fuck up the future.

Anyway, it's almost 11 PM, and I have work in the morning. Viva la Friday, etc.

Love (it'll have to do),  
Jonathan

 

*****

**To:** trachimbrodtales@yahoo.com  
 **From:** premium_dancer102@hotmail.com  
 **Date:** 3-Feb-2000 13:25  
 **Subject:** Do not be offended!

 

Dearest Jonathan,

I'm inexpressibly sorry for the gratuitous amount of time that it has taken me to respond to your message! It is difficult to find time for the library or the university computer laboratory (which I have recently discovered with the help of my English professor), as Mother has been putting up with a steady river of people who would like to purchase our house, and when I'm not in class, she frequently asks me to be of assistance. Iggy's job is to retain Sammy Davis Junior, Junior in the back yard, but she does not seem totally capable of not flinging herself at the sliding doors when I take perspective buyers on a tour. How a deranged bitch can retract from the currency value of property, you would be in consternation. They inquire of me, "Does she bite?" "Do not be alarmed," I tell them. "The deranged bitch is not included."

You have probably noticed my premium new email address. I must profess that I'm not so sure about it, as I'm not actually such a premium dancer (much like I'm not so premium with English, no matter what you have said about my no-longer-most-recent message; we will talk about that later). However it does not, hopefully, suck, and I think you will find it hysterical that _suck_ is Iggy's new favorite parlance (?) ever since I have told him about it. He also has stopped glaring at me, which is miniscule progress. Now that I have seen how simple it is to manufacture a webmail account, it will be even more simple to manufacture another in the future.

Am I to comprehend that you have a girl for an un-romantic acquaintance? This is a strange conception to me, as I have found that Ukrainian girls would only prefer to be talkative with other Ukrainian girls. American girls must be very forthcoming. It is good to think that you have someone you can confess to, because having only you to confess my thoughts to is sometimes exceedingly rigid. Lisa is a sensible name (we have one almost like it in Ukraine), so I deduce that she is a sensible person. I will forgive her for dubbing me crazy, because it is leaps and bounds better than being dubbed Shapka. (I also forgive her, Jonathan, because she dubs me your boyfriend; it means she is comprehending that you are unavailable for carnal activity).

With circumspection to your family, do not think that I blame you for uttering half-truths. I myself am uttering half-truths to Mother and Iggy about you all the time, and, like you, I feel shame. Mother often asks questions that I'm terrified to answer, such as, "Alex, why does Jonfen not write you letters? Why must you go use computers and electric mail? Why are you not home when I need you to give perspective buyers a tour?" What she does not know is that you have sent me a package, which I'm relieved to inform you I was capable to collect without her knowledge. Your magazine is very shiny, which is the most fitted word I can find. Your writing in it is much more faithful than your writing in our book, which is why I think you have found a suitable career. Also, I would not mind if you sent me drafts of your stories. As long as they are not about us, I will not care so much about the faithfulness of your writing (except in these messages, where I care about it very much).

To confirm to you that _my_ writing in these messages is faithful (and that I'm learning from you how to use italics), I will confess to you a difficult thing just as you have confessed a difficult thing to me. I have not looked at the applications yet, because I have had so much schoolwork this term. I will have exceedingly important exams in the summer term, and it is when they are finished that I promise you I will look at the papers. I will also be sending them to you in the future as I fill them out, as I'm certain that you will want to manufacture many corrections to make my English as premium as possible. I do not want to fuck up the future, either, Jonathan. I would like my future to contain a student visa, and much scholarship currency, and you. If in the process of becoming an accountant I discover some way to become a writer, then I will do it. I'm beginning to guess that homosexual writers make even more currency than homosexual accountants, if they are very good writers. I will also confess to you that I want to be a very good writer (like you; do not think that you suck), and if ceasing to abuse Roget's Thesaurus is the only way that you can discern that I do this, so be it.

More than anything, however, I confess to you that I'm proud of this message, which contains no bribery with sexual favors and therefore is not infantile (but it is hypocritical, because I'm glancing forward to being bribed by you as many times as possible).

я тебе кохаю— _ya tebe kokhayu_ , I love you (in Ukrainian, not Russian, because it is proper to teach you this first),  
Alex

 

*****

**To:** premium_dancer102@hotmail.com  
 **From:** trachimbrodtales@yahoo.com  
 **Date:** 5-Feb-2000 18:16  
 **Subject:** Offended? Me? Never!

 

Dear Alex,

Oh, geez. I tried saying that and it was a train wreck. I'm going to have to buy a calling card, or maybe just rack up a huge overseas bill on my cell phone and get bitched out by my mother (sadly, it's on her calling plan), so you can show me how to pronounce it. I've been looking into language courses, but I'm hesitant to commit to anything because I don't know whether I should be signing up for Russian, or Ukrainian, or both. I know that you primarily speak Russian in Odessa, but I know that you use some Ukrainian in the mix as well, and I remember the people we were making idiots of ourselves to all over the countryside were speaking mostly Ukrainian when, to them, it seemed like you were speaking mostly Russian. Can you give me a hand here?

For the record, so you don't think I'm any more pathetic than you already must, my cell phone bill is the only thing my parents are paying for. Now that I have a job, I'm paying my own rent (I moved out of my parents' house in December last year, just after graduation and getting the job offer). My little brother, Joshua, is staying overnight—I picked him up earlier to rescue him from having to go to synagogue. How's Iggy been doing? It's good to hear he's letting up on you a bit; if I can give you any more useful pieces of American lingo with which you can make him think you're cool, just let me know. I'm afraid I'll have to cut this fairly short, as Josh's Game Boy or whatever the hell hand-held system it is won't keep him busy forever. Before I know it, he'll be wanting to play Monopoly or Risk, or maybe a card game. He's scarily good at Slap-Jack. What does Iggy do besides wax philosophical over porn and listen to unintelligible techno?

For a Saturday night, it's really quiet—and life in Greenwich Shtetl (have I mentioned that I've loved that ever since you came up with it?) is _rarely_ quiet. I'm going to draw a picture for you if I can, but I doubt I can do the tableau justice. I'm sitting here alone in my unlit bedroom, at my fake-wooden desk from Ikea, typing quickly and glancing furtively over my shoulder every time I hear the video game music stop. There's a window just above my desk, and I can see nothing but a patch of sky that's dark and clear all at once. The door to the living room is open just a sliver: at the moment, it's all the light I have, and soon, moth-like, I'll be drawn out into it and think that the pale, clean walls and dark, modern kitchenette are not everything that I've always wanted when you're not here to share them.

я тебе кохаю, lots,  
Jonathan

P.S. It's _prospective_ , not _perspective_. Did I mention that I love you?

 

*****

**To:** trachimbrodtales@yahoo.com  
 **From:** gypsyboy1934@yahoo.com  
 **Date:** 14-Feb-2000 12:03  
 **Subject:** We are in need of a new one.

 

Dear Jonathan,

Notwithstanding the premium email service provided by Hotmail, I'm desirous to experiment with Yahoo in order to grasp why you are keen on using it instead. I hope that you won't think _gypsyboy1934_ is lame, because frankly I could not justify _gypsygirl1934_ when I'm not in actuality (only in metaphorical parlance) a girl. Still, I thought it might prove something of a romantic surprise for you on this day that I have heard you celebrate vociferously in America. St. Valentine's Day in Ukraine has begun to be celebrated as a time of buying chocolates, too, ever since our country gained independence. I've mailed you a package, but I do not know if U.S. customs will swallow it like last time or not. I took every precaution in filling out the paperwork accurately. It has been good practice for the applications, which I have hidden away in my top drawer (just like your glasses, so that Sammy does not eat them).

Iggy is doing exceedingly well, if you compare his current behavior to his behavior at the time of my last message. I've given him this new term, _lame_ , which he uses now almost as frequently as he uses the verb _to suck_. My English professor is much spleened by my recent usage of these terms in a paper, and the mark expediently taught me never to use them again. I must confess, it is strange to think that terms regarded as cool are not regarded as academically acceptable. Getting back on track, Iggy is also fond of Monopoly, although he does not know what Slap-Jack is (I asked him), and neither do I. He said that it sounded like something out of a porn magazine, and I reticently agreed. However, I would greatly appreciate if you explained the rules of this game, as I'm eager to prove to my miniature brother that he should get his mind out of the gutter. I'm starting to regret having shown him what a 69 is; life is not all sex, all the time, and also it makes me dejected and a hypocrite that I have not tried it with you.

(This message is now officially infantile.)

I'm exceedingly envious that you have your own flat (this would be the British word, because that is the version of English that they teach us in Ukraine). My bedroom is very small, and you have already seen it, so I cannot manufacture a description as evocative and charming as the one with which you have left me. I picture you alone at your desk (what is Ikea?), and I also picture you alone in your bed. This is, after all, a Valentine's message. Where do you picture me, I wonder? And _how_?

I regret to inform you that this could be the last message I can send you for a while, as there are good tidings behind this bad news: Mother has found a buyer for the house! I've saved this for last, because I've learned the expression _save the best for last_ , and I think that of all the things I've confessed to you in this message, this one is the best. I'm rather terrified, though, because this means I'll have to find a place to live in Odessa that is close to the university and inexpensive enough that I can manage to pay for it. I have saved up the money you sent in the past, and Mother says that she will give me half of the money from the sale of the house since her boyfriend (I've learned this from Lisa; tell her thanks) has a residence big enough to fit her, Iggy, and Sammy Davis Junior, Junior. I told her that this was too generous, but she shouted at me to stop uttering nonsense and let her take care of her son. I have never heard Mother raise her voice, and I'm not eager to hear it again, so I will take the money and be exceedingly thankful. In conclusion, between helping Mother and Iggy and Sammy move, and finding a flat and moving myself, I will be expeditiously busy in the near future, which I do not want to fuck up.

(This is where I collapse and plead with you to buy a phone card or run up a terrible phone bill, even though your mother will shout at you. I have gotten a mobile and am unskilled in its use, but the number is written down in the package I have sent. Forgive me, but I'm nervous about transmitting it to you electronically.)

I love you, my Safran (no Ukrainian this time, because I'm studying for an English test and need all of the practice I can accomplish),  
Your ridiculous gypsy boy Valentine

P.S. So noted, but you will have to do better than that! Also, I think you would be prudent to enroll in a Russian course and I will teach you what Ukrainian you need.

 

*****

**To:** gypsyboy1934@yahoo.com  
 **From:** trachimbrodtales@yahoo.com  
 **Date:** 14-Feb-2000 19:01  
 **Subject:** I don't even know where to start.

 

Dear Alex,

First of all, you suck. You suck so much that I wish your silly ass was here, where it belongs, instead of in the fucking Ukraine. Sorry, I don't mean to insult your country, because I've done that enough over time, but I'm sitting here trying to process the thought of not having email from you for a month or two and my chest wants to explode. The first thing out of my mouth when I call you, assuming that package containing your cell number ever arrives, will be: "Happy Valentine's Day, you fucking loser." Because that's exactly what you are, but I'm a much bigger one, because I can't drop all my deadlines at the moment and fly over to help you find a place to live. Would you kiss your mother for me? That was completely selfless of her, I mean about the money. I'd send you more, but my grandmother is getting nosy about what I do with my monthly allowance, which has gone down drastically since I've gotten the job. But seriously, if you have trouble finding a place that's really cheap (and don't go for something _too_ cheap, because I can't abide the thought of you with roaches for roommates), let me know and I'll somehow find some spare change to send you. You're not going to be homeless on my watch, and also, I'm beginning to think you should start to look at those applications ASAP. Most of them require at least two references, and you should definitely ask your English professor to be one of them. What's his name again? Kiss him for me, too, if that's what it'll take to get his help. Shit, what a fucking _mess_. I'm not trying to lecture you, but I'm a little freaked out at the moment. Just a little. I can't seem to find where one train of thought ends and the next begins, but the truth is, there's no such thing when I miss you so badly I can't fucking think straight. No pun intended. All I can think about is you sitting alone on your bed, head in hands, chewing on your thumbnail with that worried expression on your face that really made me want to hold you sometimes in the worst moments of that first trip, God forgive me for not having the courage to do it, but Alex, I hardly knew _why_. Sometimes there's so fucking much pain in these open spaces that I can't bear to cross them, but you've shown me so much courage and devotion, so much safety and peace, that I'm determined not to be the fucking asshole who keeps love at arms' length, not anymore. The minute your package gets delivered, I'm calling you; I don't care what time it is over there, and I don't care how much it'll cost. My mother can yell all she wants.

Love, _just_ love,  
Jonathan

P.S. Oh—Ikea is a purveyor of fine (yet inexpensive) Swedish housewares. Maybe we'll go when you come visit.

 

*****

**To:** trachimbrodtales@yahoo.com  
 **From:** odessawithlove@hotmail.com  
 **Date:** 18-Apr-2000 14:01  
 **Subject:** Like a moron, I've forgotten my passwords.

 

Dearest Jonathan,

That's why I've found it requisite to make _another_ email account, but it is one that I believe will be worth keeping from now on. It runs parallel to yours, as it contains a location, and it also contains the word _love_ in case I never utter it to you enough. If you had not called me many times in the long, difficult weeks that have transpired, I think that Lisa's assessment of your _crazy Ukrainian boyfriend_ would indeed have come true. As I have said, the new flat is not _too_ much currency per month, and I have almost finished putting all of my things away (as I don't have as many things as you have, which will make moving to America next year —see, I'm thinking positively about this, just like you requested of me—a lot easier). However, I'm finding positive thoughts generally easier due to the fact that you have defiantly used a credit card to book me plane tickets to New York in September, which I think makes my package of Ukrainian chocolates and an empty writing diary look like the lamest Valentine's Day gift known to the human race. It seems to me that the mobile number made up for it, although I would urge you not to call me as often so that your mother will not cut off your account again in the future. What's happened to our repetition of not fucking it up? (Joking.)

I'm ecstatic to hear that you have found a suitable (and affordable) Russian course. In the proximal future, I'll begin making up tests for you, and when I say tests, I mostly mean emails written entirely in, what did Josh call it, _that barbaric alphabet_? He sounds like a genius, too, your little brother. In fact, our little brothers will be running New York and Odessa while we are busy having shit for brains as a writer and an accountant who should be a writer. However, I must tell you, I'm not distressed at the prospect of this future. I can hardly classify such a future as fucked up when the two of us, together, are contained in it. It is this thought that I'll return to many times in the coming months when I'm spleened by (plagued with! joking!) my final exams and filling out applications for your perusal. See, Jonathan, my English has actually gotten as good as you have said. I look forward to saying the same thing about your Russian/Ukrainian, but that will not be for a very long time. This is not to insult your intelligence; it is merely the truth.

I feel that I have begun to natter (these British words are charming) on about insignificant, stupid things, so the solution is clearly to make this message as infantile as I can possibly get it. I hope you are keeping track of all the bribery (a convenient code-word, I find) that you owe me, and I would like to thank you for introducing me to the miracle of phone sex (which is only possible because we have our own flats, and is not possible when our genius little brothers happen to be visiting at the same time). In the coming months, I hope that we will practise (my English professor does not like my American spellings, so there is an example of British) this as often as possible, although not to the point that I cannot concentrate on my studies. To obtain scholarship currency, I know that I will need the highest marks I can positively achieve. You understand this, I'm certain.

In the meantime, I'll have you with me as I've always had you with me, for you've been here in my heart since before either of us existed, just as I have been in yours.

я тебя люблю— _ya tebya lyublyu_ (Russian, which we also use and is not really much different).

From Odessa with love, _always_ guilelessly,

Alex

P.S. Is it September yet?


	6. The Book of Dreams to Come

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stanley Yelnats and Hector Zeroni (from _Holes_ ), unnamed and anonymous, have a cameo appearance in this installment, and so does a variant version of their lullaby (which I like to imagine may have existed in Ukraine in this fictional reality). You may also recognize the cab driver in sunglasses as none other than [**the Ifrit**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1021282?page=1) from Neil Gaiman's _American Gods_ (the timelines and the location lined up to perfection).

**To:** odessawithlove@hotmail.com  
**From:** trachimbrodtales@yahoo.com  
**Date:** 2-Sep-2000 19:42  
**Subject:** Are you sure Sammy didn't eat your passport?

 

Дорогой Alex,

Okay, this has nothing to do with your passport, but _wow_ , Russian is a pain in the ass. Two months into the course, and I feel like all I know how to do is write out the alphabet, say hello/goodbye, write letters to my theoretical pen pal (except for the part where you're real) at the level of your average five year-old, and maybe ask where the bathroom is (come on, fess up—that _must_ have been the first thing you learned in English). Unless it was how to say "My name is..."; in which case, I know how to say that as well: Меня зовўт Jonathan. In case you're wondering why I didn't write out my name in Cyrillic, do you have any fucking idea how long it takes to track down those letters in Character Map? Josh looks at me like I'm from Mars when he's over here for the weekend, although I think he's secretly jealous and wants to learn your barbaric alphabet, too. I taught him how to say the word for _hello_ , and so he sends a very bad pronunciation attempt indeed to Iggy. Please, under no circumstances let our little brothers start corresponding until one or the other is fluent in the other's language. By your logic, they could start WWIII if we're not careful. In retrospect, I'm amazed that _we_ didn't start it. Да, I'm joking.

So, I'm going to lay off the Russian now in favor of getting down to business, such as the matter of your passport. Have you found it yet? As the subject line suggests, I really hope it's not in shreds. That would suck. No, that wouldn't just suck, that would _blow_. You can teach Iggy that one, too, if you haven't already. I'm sure I don't have to translate it for you, although if I knew how to translate it into Russian, I would certainly save you the effort. Anyway, if there turns out to be some problem with your passport, such as the possibility that it might be out of date, etc., please try to get that taken care of ASAP. Your flight's in eight days, and I don't know if your consulate or whatever would get it updated in time. I know I'm probably panicking for no good reason, as Europeans are generally more with-it when it comes to having current passports. I'm the only person in my family under the age of 70 who _has_ a passport. As a rule of thumb, Americans suck —nay, blow—at international travel. Actually, do me a favor and don't tell me that you'd already noticed, as I'm sure you have. I like my illusions about being cosmopolitan and with-it, thank you very much.

Have you got your exam scores back yet? You were supposed to get them last week or this week or something, weren't you? I'm on pins and needles, here. I know you've done well, though, because you barely wrote in July and August, which sucked. The only thing that kept the situation from completely blowing was the length of your emails when they _did_ come, which was comparable to the letters you used to write. You know what's surreal? We've known each other for a little over three years now. Your first letter came in July 1997, right after I'd gotten home from the trip. Here we are, September 2000 —would you have foreseen this? Would you have thought that we'd eventually put our dreams in words? Would you have dreamed that our words would become real? Would you have dreamed that I'd enroll in a fucking Russian course? (In my mind, the latter is only logical, seeing as I'd like to be able to understand you in bed.)

Anyway, I'm doing much worse than nattering, and I expect to hear from you at least once before you cross the pond and I end up sitting in JFK a nervous wreck because I can't stand the place. Honestly, travel isn't the bad part. It's just airports. I keep checking your flight info by phone in case there are any changes you need to know about, but there don't seem to be any. I'll call you if anything screwy should occur (Да, another one for Iggy, and a badly-pronounced Russian hello from me, too).

Love,  
Jonathan

P.S. _Now_ it's September.

 

 

 

*

**To:** trachimbrodtales@yahoo.com  
**From:** odessawithlove@hotmail.com  
**Date:** 6-Sep-2000 15:09  
**Subject:** I'm unequivocally certain. It's roosting on my bookshelf.

 

Greetings, Jonathan,

I open my email in this fashion so that you'll realize how funny your greeting was, and by _funny_ I regret that I mean to say _formal_. Nonetheless, it's very correct, so I'm confident that you don't have shit for brains where the study of alien languages is concerned. If you would like to know where I've gotten this phrase, I also regret that I have not made it up. In fact, Iggy is the one who has made it up, and it's fortunate that it's still full of humor when translated into English. Between _barbaric_ and _alien_ , I fear that our little brothers will indeed start WWIII (I confess it gave me a rigid time, this acronym, until I ran a web search on it) by sheer force of not knowing with precision what the fuck they're saying. Fortunately, you have always more or less understood what I'm saying in spite of my reckless (I now understand the proper context of this term) errors. We've made each other eat humble pie on many occasions, but we have not found it expeditious to drop bombs. Also, I'm joking, but somehow I don't feel urgently to laugh. Perhaps we should abandon this in favor of brainstorming more dubious American slang to teach Iggy.

Speaking of which, it is because I have ceased using such words in my papers that I have secured a premium score on my English exam. I would call my other scores premium in addition, but this is not stringently true. The rest of my scores are divided between above-premium and sub-premium, which means that I have been vigorously filling in the application papers. I'll bring them all so that you can analyze them at your leisure. I've abandoned the use of British spelling, as I know that it will be of positively no use to me in America. I might have scored above-premium on my English exam, but it was in an act of heroic defiance that I defended my reasoning for the use of American spelling in one of the essay inquiries. I also plan to bring my exam score papers so that you may look at them and determine if photocopies will be good enough to include with the applications. I'll also try to explain the Ukrainian grading system, which will make as much sense to you as Russian and which is why I use modifications of the term _premium_ , which has become a standard of quantification between us. I rigidly believe we have devised a system of language that is foolproof between us and to no one else on earth.

In truth, Jonathan, I dreamed many times that you would one day learn to speak to me in the language of my thoughts, but my thoughts these days are strange. For some instances, thinking in English seems best, and for others, I think a little in Ukrainian, as Grandfather spoke it to me when I was small just as he used to speak it to Sammy Davis Junior, Junior when he thought not a soul was listening. However, I'm grateful that you're learning Russian, as it means my dreams, which I once denied, have not been in vain.

Please, please call even if there are no alterations to my flights. Five days feels somewhat like eternity, and I'm finding the anticipation too rigid to bear.

Love,  
Alex

P.S. XOXOXO, some barbaric letters you should understand. I don't know if Iggy will return Josh's hello, as I have not seen him since two weeks yore and will not see him till the day I depart.

 

*****

**To:** odessawithlove@hotmail.com  
**From:** trachimbrodtales@yahoo.com  
**Date:** 6-Sep-2000 22:39  
**Subject:** Tell me the truth—

 

Are you nervous?

I'll call on the 10th around 4 PM your time.

XXXOOO

—J

 

*****

**To:** trachimbrodtales@yahoo.com  
**From:** odessawithlove@hotmail.com  
**Date:** 8-Sep-2000 13:25  
**Subject:** To be peerlessly honest —

 

I'm terrified.

Call me today if you occur to read this.

[There are not letters for what I'd like to indicate.]

Love (it will do),  
Alex

 

*** * ***

**11 September 2000, 4:29 PM**

Restlessly, Jonathan shifts in his chair. In spite of the faux leather lining and padded, full-length back rest, it's not comfortable, and he doubts that any amount of shifting will make it so. Alex's plane is already ten minutes late in spite of no reported delays, and Jonathan is beginning to suspect that he's the only fluent English speaker waiting at the gate. The middle-aged woman across from him seems to have no concept of the idea that staring is rude. Her scrutiny reminds Jonathan of his grandmother's: candid and unflinching. When she'd asked him how on earth he'd managed to meet a Ukrainian in Prague, he'd come up with some lame, on-the-spot story about Alex living and working there. Of all the lies that Jonathan couldn't bring himself to rectify, it was, possibly, the worst. At least his parents and Josh knew he'd out-and-out gone to the Ukraine a total of twice now (albeit via Prague, which he claimed to have a fondness for, which was true, but still not _entirely_ true, much to his shame). They were looking forward to meeting Alex in a morbidly curious sort of way.

Just then, a string of semi-recognizable Russian blared over the PA system, followed by an unrecognizable repetition in Ukrainian, and the same in faintly British-tinged English:

"Ukraine International Flight 2352 will shortly be arriving at the gate. Thank you for your patience."

The next ten minutes pass in a blur. Jonathan remembers rising to his feet the instant that the English announcement began, but he doesn't remember dashing to the observation window and pressing his fingers to the glass, or forgetting to breathe as the plane—such an ordinary occurrence—taxis steadily into position and grinds to a halt. He doesn't turn until there's movement out of the corner of his eye, some of the flight crew entering through the now-open door.

More than a dozen noisy, tired strangers later, Alex is moving toward him with a sleepwalker's uncertain gait.

"Hello," he says, stifling a yawn, shifting his backpack from one shoulder to the other. "I could not manufacture any sleep, alas. I will be very jet-lagged for the next few days."

"That's all right," Jonathan says, reaching for the backpack. He knows that Alex will probably flinch from physical contact so long as they're surrounded by strangers, but he makes contact at Alex's upper arm and slides his fingers slowly, deliberately up to hook under the strap.

Long moments later, he's still crushed in Alex's embrace, his lips pressed to Alex's neck and Alex's pressed to his ear, murmuring, "Jonathan, I dreamed that your city is an island."

"That wasn't a dream," says Jonathan, not letting go, because Alex isn't letting go, either. "You saw Manhattan from the plane window."

"Yes," agrees Alex, pulling away only then, allowing Jonathan to take the backpack. "It was the most premium view I have ever experienced." He yawns again, this time unable to hide it. Jonathan notices that Alex's shirt is severely wrinkled, and that he's wearing the same jeans that he wore to the train station in Lvov over three years ago. He's slightly more gaunt than Jonathan remembers, even at their most recent visit. Living alone since April had definitely taken its toll.

"How many bags do you have checked?" Jonathan asks, taking Alex by the shoulder and steering him toward the main concourse. The escalator isn't far away, and, with any luck, the taxi line-up wouldn't be so bad by the time they claim Alex's luggage. Public transit would be unthinkable, what with Alex about to keel over from sheer exhaustion.

"One," Alex says, catching Jonathan's hand at his shoulder. He laces their fingers and lets their arms dangle, but Jonathan can't help but notice that Alex is trembling. He tries to let go of Alex's hand, anything to make these first moments of stunned disbelief easier, but Alex's grip tightens almost enough to crack Jonathan's knuckles.

"Right," Jonathan says, stepping onto the escalator, fishing in his pocket with his free hand for his passport. Customs won't give him any difficulty, as they didn't on his way in, but Alex is likely to get a few annoying questions. "I'm thinking we should get a cab once we've cleared customs and got your suitcase."

Alex looks almost perplexed at this, but he has to use both their hands to stifle another yawn. He lingers briefly over the back of Jonathan's hand, as if restoring some memory to former vividness.

"You will not show me how to reach Greenwich Shtetl by subway?"

"We'll take the subway so often you'll get tired of it," Jonathan reassures him, stepping off the escalator, careful not to drag Alex or trip him. "You seem pretty tired, so a cab will be easier."

"It'll also be very much currency, yes?"

"Probably," answers Jonathan, letting go of Alex's hand as they approach the baggage carousels, "but I'm not worried."

The customs officers must be having a good day, because they're all but waved through with a quick perusal of passports—a visa stamp, in Alex's case—and a nod. Jonathan bites his tongue until they're outside the terminal, as making a crack about smuggling cheap vodka out of Odessa wouldn't have been appreciated.

"Of course," is Alex's reply, accompanied by something like an eye-roll. "I have also taken care to smuggle out some cheap women. That's why my suitcase is like lead." He sets it down on the curb and shades his eyes against the sunlight, squinting. "Jonathan, when does darkness begin to fall?"

"Around eight," he replies, waving frantically at the next cab, as they've already been beat to the previous two. "It's still summer, so the daylight lasts a long time."

"Ah," says Alex, and hands his suitcase to the cab driver after a moment's hesitation. "Is this normal?" he whispers, ducking inside as Jonathan holds the door for him.

"Yes," Jonathan whispers back. "It's the kind of thing you give a tip for."

" _Ah_."

"Where are you going?" asks the driver, his eyes invisible behind his dark sunglasses.

Jonathan gives him the address, and they're off in a squeal of tires. Alex is already clinging to Jonathan's arm, his pale eyes wide with alarm. Unthinking, Jonathan extends one arm along the back of the seat and lets it settle across Alex's shoulders.

"It's all right," he says. "They all drive like this."

"And you were doubting _Grandfather_?" Alex asks, incredulous.

Jonathan opens his mouth, then closes it again. The taste of humble pie is familiar.

They fall silent, but not on account of the added awkwardness. Alex is staring out the window, mesmerized, one hand clutching Jonathan's at his right shoulder. After a while, the expressway seems not to interest him—although Jonathan can see it's on account of his fatigue, as Alex's eyelids have grown heavy. Only the briefest of uncertain looks passes between them before Alex's head droops onto Jonathan's shoulder. Jonathan draws him in close, resting his cheek against Alex's hair.

The driver is silent for the entirety of their journey, eyes inscrutable behind the reflection of his shades.

The fare is over fifty dollars, which Jonathan had been expecting—Alex, now half awake, is standing on the sidewalk in front of Jonathan's building, watching with drowsy fascination. As the cab screeches away, Jonathan hefts up both the suitcase and the backpack.

"Do you do this every time that you travel?" Alex asks, following Jonathan up the dimly lit stairwell.

"No, not usually," Jonathan says, pausing to catch his breath. Alex tries to take the backpack off of him, but he resists with a shrug and presses on. "I take the bus, then the subway."

"You were wise to suggest a cab," Alex admits, yawning sheepishly.

"You can crash as soon as we're inside," Jonathan says, pushing his way through a set of doors and into the long, familiar hallway. "Down to the end and take a right. I'm the first door on the left." Alex insists on taking the keys off of Jonathan, and he explains which two to use, which one goes with which lock.

"Greenwich Shtetl is dangerous?" Alex asks, pushing the door open and holding it for Jonathan.

"Not really," Jonathan says, setting Alex's luggage down by the coffee table. Unexpectedly, Alex locates the light switch, flooding the room in a subdued orange glow. "It's just a precaution."

"Odessa is dangerous, but Kyiv is often more dangerous," Alex says, as if aware of how disconnected the statement seems. He sets Jonathan's keys down on the coffee table, blinking at the glass surface and through to the books arranged in piles underneath. He glances from the books to Jonathan, then kicks the backpack carefully to one side in order to step forward, to close this last space between them.

"New York is dangerous, too," Jonathan says, but it's lost against the press of Alex's lips and in the stumbling that will doubtless leave them with bruises before they can reach the bedroom or the couch, whichever comes first.

 

**12 September 2000, 10:14 AM**

Warmth. _Everything_ is warm —maybe _too_ warm —but the slight breeze skimming Jonathan's naked back means that he'd forgotten to close the bedroom window before going to collect Alex yesterday. _Alex_. Warm body, warm skin, warm breath. Jonathan shivers at the contrast between the two and burrows closer to Alex, his nose stuck somewhere between Alex's neck and the pillow, the inside of his thigh snug across Alex's belly, his knee catching the sharp angle of Alex's hip. Jonathan wiggles his foot against the back of Alex's thigh, which earns him a sleepy groan and an unexpected slap in nearly the exact same spot.

" _Mmm_." Jonathan channels his indignation into a full-body stretch accompanied by a yawn. "Was that you, or did you let one of the women out of your suitcase last night when I wasn't looking?"

"Very humorous," Alex mutters, but he tightens his arms around Jonathan's middle and turns his head, blindly seeking a kiss. Jonathan lifts his head and catches Alex's mouth with his own, opening his eyes to the late morning light and the oddity of Alex's features viewed at such close range. After a few seconds, Jonathan decides that kissing really was made to be done in darkness, and closes his eyes again. Alex is already shifting under him, hard against Jonathan's inner thigh. More warmth, this time trapped between their bellies as Jonathan shifts and settles directly on top of Alex, careful not to break the kiss. He's not certain which is more satisfying: this half-awake fumbling toward mutual pleasure or the disarmed ecstasy of Alex's expression the night before when Jonathan had finally gotten him just to lie still and take the attention of Jonathan's mouth wherever he felt like giving it, which was more or less _everywhere_.

" _Dobroye utro_ , _solntse_ ," Jonathan manages, gasping for breath between kisses. It's more effort than he's ever had to put into words for any occasion, and he's sure he's said it incorrectly. _Good morning, sunshine_.

Alex moans into Jonathan's mouth, the sound caught somewhere between surprise and intense arousal. " _Tolko nye govori_ , _shto mnye eto snitsya_ ," he answers, breathless, holding Jonathan back with one shaking hand pressed to Jonathan's cheek. "I...think I am dreaming again," Alex clarifies, swallowing hard, his fingers feathering tiny circles just under Jonathan's right eye.

"Look, you don't have to speak English," Jonathan says, taking hold of Alex's hand and kissing his palm before pressing it back to his cheek. "Test me. You've only been threatening to do that for months." It's getting difficult to hold still; at this point, it _is_ painful, as Alex is trembling under him with the same ravenous ache. Seven months' separation, and it's going to keep them indoors for at least the next twenty-four hours. Unbe _liev_ able. It's a good thing there's food in the house.

"No, this shouldn't be a test," Alex murmurs, finally lifting his head for another kiss, "but I will know that you're listening."

"Are you kidding?" Jonathan asks, grinning, and adjusts his position until they're both comfortable. Alex has a way of breathing that suggests a given position is _just_ right, and the sudden, sharp rise of Alex's chest is how it begins. This, Jonathan remembers from the hotel in Odessa, the way Alex took his arms and wrapped them around his neck, the way Alex's hands found precisely where they needed to be, the way he drew in his breath, then, and they _moved_ just like they're moving now.

" _Shto ty_! _Ya smertelno seryozen_ ," Alex gasps, hiding his face in shame against Jonathan's shoulder. "Joking about...what? I'm serious."

"About not testing me," replies Jonathan, wishing he knew how to say it in Russian, but even coherent English at this point is doubtful. "Figure of speech, don't...oh, _fuck_. Don't worry about —oh _God —_"

Alex's teeth and tongue at his collarbone; his hands all up and down the length of Jonathan's back, gentle as the breeze but still demanding. Jonathan feels the rhythm change and, at this, closes his eyes and presses their foreheads together, one hand at Alex's cheek so that he can be certain that Alex is looking at him when he says, " _Ty mnye ochen nuzhen, ja tak po tyebye skuchal_ "— _I need you, I've missed you so much —_and comes. Whether it's from the surprise or some previously undiscovered linguistic kink, Alex follows him with a frenzy of Russian, some of which Jonathan can, even in the grasp of orgasm, understand: _you too_ , _never stop_ , _please my Safran my love_.

Afterward, half asleep with his fingers tangled in Alex's hair, Jonathan thinks, _We even make love in a strange language, and nothing could be more New York than that_. Some time later, when Jonathan wakes uncertain of when he'd fallen asleep, Alex is stroking Jonathan's hair in turn and singing —well, more humming than singing, as neither of them can really sing—a melody with words that aren't quite Russian. Jonathan recognizes the lullaby as one that his grandfather used to sing him when he was a child, which means that it's probably in Ukrainian. Vaguely, Jonathan remembers asking what it was about. He must have been five or six at the time.

"A bird," Safran had said, "and the tree in which the bird is sitting, and a wolf howling at the moon."

"What else, Grandpa?" Jonathan had asked, tugging the bedcovers up to his chin.

"The last part means _if only it were so, if only it were so_. In other words, it is only a story. Go to sleep now, Jonathan. Your grandmother will be angry with me if you stay up all night."

Abruptly, Alex stops singing, his fingers going still in Jonathan's hair. "I'm sorry to have awakened you."

"Don't be," Jonathan says, tilting his head up until they've almost made eye contact. "How do you know that song?"

"Grandfather used to sing it," Alex says, closing his eyes with a sigh. "I was quite small and did not understand."

Jonathan traces a line down Alex's upper arm. "Do you understand it now?"

"Possibly," Alex murmurs. His eyes are still closed, but he's smiling.

 

**13 September 2000, 11:37 AM**

It's the most typical, horrible, Hollywood thing Jonathan could have done, but Alex is staring at the skyscrapers and the billboards and the crowds, breathless with wonder. Jonathan hangs back a little, his hands in his pockets. Times Square is a death-trap if you're feeling claustrophobic, and he finds himself wishing that the streets of New York were just a bit less crowded—more like the streets of Odessa, perhaps. Alex doesn't seem to notice, which is all the more reason for Jonathan to be keeping an eye out for pickpockets and oblivious Japanese tourists with cameras. Alex is more in danger of tripping over the latter and breaking a bone than he is of getting mugged.

"Jonathan, should you not be at work?" Alex asks, briefly tearing his eyes away from the spectacle.

"No," he replies, indicating that they should probably start walking again. "I got the week off."

"This is convenient," Alex says, taking hold of Jonathan's hand, "and so so thoughtful of you."

Jonathan shrugs, realizing that he's grinning like an idiot and can't stop. "I asked far enough in advance. It's no big deal. Besides, I wasn't about to put a map and a guide book in your hands and let you wander around alone."

"It's supremely perplexing, your subway system. I would not have found my way here without inquiring for directions many times."

"Hey, I didn't design it," Jonathan responds, but Alex is already staring at a theater awning across the street, as if trying to make sense of the sheer variety of entertainments available in a relatively small space. "Would you be interested in seeing a Broadway show or something?"

"I've read many things about it, mostly how much currency it is for tickets," Alex says, giving Jonathan a doubtful look. "You have disseminated so much currency for my sake already."

"Spent a lot of money," Jonathan corrects him, although it seems that certain features of Alex's unique grasp of English aren't going anywhere, no matter how much it improves. "How many times do I have to tell you not to worry about it?"

"Very many," says Alex, gravely, squeezing Jonathan's hand. "In Ukraine, I have not been the object of such magnanimous behavior. Father didn't like to pay me sufficient funds for translating."

 _Huh_ , Jonathan thinks, combing the sentence for a reason to object and finding none. "That wasn't nice of him," he says instead, darkly remembering Alex's black eye at the train station in Lvov. "It might not be my place to say this, but I'm glad he's gone."

"I am glad also," Alex replies, pausing in front of a souvenir shop window. "It means that Mother and Iggy are safe, and that Grandfather didn't have to tolerate driving any more tourists."

Jonathan stares at his shoes—sneakers that he hardly ever wears—conscious of how informal he looks, how frank they are with each other, how far they've come in terms of distance and love. "I'm sorry if I was an inconvenience to him," he says, glancing sidelong at Alex. "To you, even."

"No, Jonathan," Alex says, tugging him inside the shop, sounding strangely imperturbed. "I had been waiting for you, but I had not known it." He heads directly for a rack of white t-shirts, tugging off one of the most overdone of the lot and admiring it. "I must get this for Iggy!"

"Does he love New York?" asks Jonathan, afraid he'll start laughing so hard that he might cry.

"Not yet," Alex says, grinning and pointing the hanger at him for emphasis, "but this is no reason to be distressed."

They eat lunch at Hard Rock Café and dinner at Planet Hollywood, which wasn't so bad, unless you counted the veggie burgers at both places tasting suspiciously similar. Jonathan can hardly complain, though, because Alex had insisted on trying the hamburger as rendered by each, only to reach the same conclusion that Jonathan had reached concerning the veggie burgers.

"That's not to say either one is bad, though," Jonathan says, peering through the handful of small shopping bags that he's managed to take off of Alex's hands during the course of the day. "I'd take either one over McDonald's any day."

"I understand this," Alex says, leaning over to peer into the bags as well. "I have d—spent a lot of money?"

"Kind of," Jonathan admits, half smiling, wondering if the snow-globe is for Alex's mother. "You could've done worse, though. The Hard Rock shirt is _damn_ sexy."

"Then I'll wear it tomorrow when we meet with your family, and they will discern that I'm a premium person."

"Oh, God," Jonathan says. "Don't remind me."

"Are they so terrible?" asks Alex, frowning at him.

"No, not terrible," Jonathan explains, once more struggling for words. "It's just that they...you know, think I'm kind of weird. I didn't want to go into law or medicine or anything useful, I don't bring home nice Jewish girls for Mom to fuss over, et cetera."

"But Jonathan, being a writer is exceedingly useful."

"Well, they've made peace with that, but how do you explain the absence of girls?"

"Ah," Alex says, his eyes immediately falling to the sidewalk. "Jonathan, I don't mean to make this more rigid than it seems, but if I am accepted to study here—"

"I know, I know," Jonathan says, the knot in his stomach tightening. "They'd find out, so I'll have to tell them. I don't really know how, that's all."

"Father was not a good man, but he was not a stupid one," Alex says, his tone indicating agreement.

"Your father thought you were weird, too?"

"Emphatically yes. He did not understand why I preferred to roost on the beach instead of going to clubs with girls."

"You made an awfully big deal of the ruse in our book."

"Ruse?"

"Lie."

"Ah. Unfortunately, yes. I thought American readers would find me...weird, too."

"Look, Americans find _me_ weird, and they're probably going to find you weird anyway."

"See, this is why we must be faithful," Alex says, as if it settles the matter for good, and in less than a moment his arm is around Jonathan's waist, their wrists a tangle of plastic bag handles at Jonathan's hip.

 _If only it were so_ , Jonathan thinks, and stares at the sky till he's blinded by limitless blue.

 

**14 September 2000, 1:30 PM**

Jonathan takes a slow breath before ringing the doorbell. Alex's hand, until then a soothing presence on his back, is instantly gone. Jonathan steps back and takes stock of the situation, knowing that it'll take his mother at least two minutes to answer the door if she happens to be in the kitchen, which she most likely is. There's nothing about either one of them that isn't presentable, although...

"I can't believe you actually wore that," Jonathan says, more amused than irritated.

Alex shrugs, both of his hands in his pockets. "I'm not sure what else would suffice."

"You'll be Josh's hero, wearing something like that to Mom's table," Jonathan warns him, and it's then that the door swings open. Jonathan's mother pauses for a few moments, her faintly graying hair straightened and perfect, just barely brushing her shoulders. The creases in her forehead deepen, but only briefly: the rest of her face lights up in a smile, showing off her perfect lipstick.

"What's this about my table, Jonathan?"

"Nothing compares," he says, quickly, flashing a conspiratorial smile at Alex. "I was just saying, I don't know anybody who makes better egg salad sandwiches."

"There's chicken salad, too, of course," she says, extending a hand to Alex, "considering that your friend eats poultry like the rest of us. I'm pleased to meet you, Alex."

"I'm pleased to meet you as well, Mrs. Foer," Alex says, and, instead of shaking her hand, kisses it.

Jonathan wants to cringe at his mother's briefly shocked expression, but it passes, fading swiftly into her practiced smile. "No use standing out here in the heat," she says, beckoning. "Come inside."

"Something tells me I did not do the right thing," Alex whispers once she's left them alone in the pristine dining room, glancing around the room in terror. "Is that chandelier actual?"

"Um, yes," Jonathan says, pulling out a chair for Alex. "It's real. I don't think you did the wrong thing, it's just that Mom is—"

"Easily shocked," says Josh, wandering in behind them. "Hi, sorry I couldn't save you at the door."

"Hi," Jonathan says, taking a seat beside Alex, who looks as if he wants to hide under the table.

"You're Alex?" he asks, stepping up behind them, peering at Alex's shirt. " _Awesome_. I like the hamburgers."

"Alex does, too," Jonathan says, elbowing him in the ribs.

"Yes, this is truth," Alex says, offering a hand to Josh. "I'm pleased to meet you."

"Jonathan says your English is hilarious," Josh says, grinning as he shakes Alex's hand vigorously. "He means it as a compliment, of course. I'll bet your English is better than his. Jonathan writes like a dork."

"Josh, _language_ ," calls their mother from the kitchen.

"Whatever, Mom!"

The beginnings of a smile are playing at the corners of Alex's mouth, as if this is entirely familiar no matter what country one is from. "My...miniature brother is often like you," Alex says, and, as he likely intended by reverting to his old vocabulary, Josh bursts out laughing.

"Wow, _cool_!"

Alex gives Jonathan a look that's mildly frightened, which makes it all the harder to keep a straight face. Josh has already raced around the table to the seat opposite Alex, and he's more kneeling in it than sitting, leaning almost halfway across the pristine tablecloth.

"Can you teach me Russian? Jonathan doesn't want to."

"Hey," Jonathan protests, "that's not—"

"I can teach you some, but I'll only be here until the Tuesday of next week."

Josh glances at Jonathan, making the sort of face that means he's feeling petulant.

"Will you bring him here again?"

"We weren't planning on it," Jonathan admits, aware that Alex is giving him a strained look.

"Then can I come to your apartment before he leaves?"

"We'll see," Jonathan says, actually grateful to see their mother come in with the tray.

The meal passes blessedly without event, mostly because Jonathan's mother switches between keeping Alex talking about life in the Ukraine and talking Alex's ear off in turn—about life in New York, her husband, her sons. By the time they've polished off the sandwiches, Josh has sunk so far down in his chair out of boredom that Jonathan is afraid he might fall on the floor. Twelve year-olds, he thinks, are incredible creatures. Their mother yells at him for a third time, but he only sinks lower.

"You'll have to forgive Josh," she says, rising and beginning to collect their plates up onto the tray. "He can be incredibly shy."

"It is no trouble," Alex says, handing her his glass. "My younger brother, Iggy, is also like this."

Once she's in the kitchen again, Josh sits up straight and puts his elbows on the table.

"Let's go upstairs. I want to show Alex my Game Boy. Do you have Nintendo in the Ukraine?"

"Yes, although Iggy and I do not have one," Alex says, looking questioningly at Jonathan.

"Yeah, sure," Jonathan says, rising. "Mom, we're going upstairs to show Alex around, okay?"

"That's fine," she replies, her voice raised so it'll carry over the running water.

Josh's room is the smallest, but he's always been fiercely proud of it. Alex is patient while Josh pops in one game after another, showing him how to play through about the first minute and a half before moving on to the next. After about fifteen minutes, Jonathan has to use the bathroom, so he excuses himself. Alex's voice echoes through the tile wall from Josh's room, which indicates that Josh must've turned off the Game Boy in favor of asking Alex more inane questions. Jonathan washes his hands hastily and steps into the hall. He's about to push back through the bedroom door, but Josh's next question stops him cold.

"Do you love my brother?"

Jonathan freezes, his fingers barely brushing the doorknob. Alex's silence is fraught with panic so palpable that Jonathan can almost feel it, never mind that there's a wooden door between them.

"Why do you ask?" responds Alex, cautiously, his voice impressively calm.

It's Josh's turn to hesitate, his silence punctuated by a guilty sigh.

"I saw one of your old letters in Jonathan's apartment. I shouldn't have been nosing around. You signed it 'love,' but none of the earlier ones were like that."

"It sounds to me that you have found more than one letter?" Alex asks, his tone mildly reprimanding. It's enough to make Alex _Jonathan's_ hero for at least five seconds, after which Josh opens his mouth again.

"Yes," he confesses. "I looked through a couple of others. And once, he talked to you on the phone for two hours when I was there. Jonathan doesn't _like_ talking on the phone."

"Maybe he has grown accustomed to talking on the phone, since we are usually very far apart?" Alex is grasping at straws now, no longer as confident as he was at first. Jonathan wishes that he could intervene, but he understands that this is not meant for his ears, that Josh won't even mention it later.

"I think he loves _you_ ," says Josh, quietly.

"Does this distress you?" Alex asks, his tone gentle. This, he knows how to cope with.

"No, but I get worried," Josh says. "If Mom finds out, she'll have a hissy."

"A...what?"

"Hissy fit," Josh explains. "You know, like a tantrum."

"Yes, my brother Iggy sometimes has these."

"Like a girl?" Josh asks, somewhat mystified.

"No, but trust me, he has fits," Alex reassures him. "It is mostly normal."

"Are you scared, being in America for the first time?"

"Yes, a little. But with your brother, I'm not so afraid."

"Jonathan!" yells Josh, as if suddenly remembering that he ought to be there. "Get in here and help Alex teach me some Russian!"

Jonathan closes his fingers around the doorknob and twists it, walking in with a smile as practiced as their mother's and his heart beating a mile a minute. Alex's smile, at least, is genuine, which is enough reassurance to quiet Jonathan's fears.

 

**15 September 2000, 5:21 PM**

"I admit that I've been dreading this," Alex says, unzipping his backpack. He pulls out a plastic folder, which is full of applications now covered in his unexpectedly careful handwriting. It was what had struck Jonathan about Alex's correspondence from the start: each letter carefully formed, deliberately inscribed. He hands the folder to Jonathan, wincing, and immediately picks his plate up off the coffee table.

"Why?" Jonathan asks, setting his pasta down not far from where Alex's used to be, and removes the sheaf of papers. He glances over the few that happen to be on top—Hunter College at CUNY, Baruch College at CUNY, Bramson ORT College—and can immediately see that Alex must have spent hours filling in every possible section down to the most painful of details, although the occasional blank space suggests that he may need some clarification. "It looks to me like you've done everything you reasonably can. Have you taken stock of how many recommendations each of these require?"

"Yes, in fact," Alex says, struggling to keep some spaghetti wound around his fork. "There is a typed list at the back."

And so there was, just like that: _Hunter —2_, _Baruch —2_, _Bramson —2_, _NYU —2_, _Queens —2_, _Pace —2_, _Government Muskie/UGRAD —???_

"Ah, right," Jonathan says, setting aside the pile for the moment, feeling something of Alex's bewilderment. "Those government ones are kind of confusing; we can go through those together. Otherwise, it looks like you've done everything except get the recommendations."

"Which I must not do until I'm ready to be submissive with them, yes?"

"Um, yes," Jonathan says, twirling some spaghetti onto his fork. "Submit them. I doubt you want to give them the impression you're submiss _ive_ , though. They're probably looking for assertive individuals. Which you are, usually."

"Usually?" echoes Alex, methodically smashing a bit of the Quorn mince that Jonathan had used to make the bolognese sauce, as if to see what it's actually made of. "I cannot believe this isn't meat."

"Well, yeah," Jonathan says, swallowing hastily. "You're usually very up-front about what you want, what your goals are, that kind of thing. It's just that you don't want to seem indecisive."

"I promise you that my decision has been made for some time," replies Alex, with a wistful half-smile. The irony of his tone isn't lost on Jonathan, and that, too, is comforting.

"Good. All we've got to do is convince them that you're worth it."

"Which 'them' should we want to convince, precisely? You have not said which of these schools is the most premium place for the study of accounting."

"To be honest, I picked up these particular applications because I'd heard all of them were at least decent, if not better," explains Jonathan, somewhat hesitantly. "I admit that I don't know much about accounting personally, though. I'm relying on the advice of friends and acquaintances. You should probably aim for one of the CUNY colleges; I know they can handle business admin training blindfolded."

"Also the government, because if I'm understanding correctly, the currency may be used at any school?"

"That's right." Jonathan chases the last few stray noodles around his plate, scooping them up with the last of the mince. "It doesn't really taste like meat, though. It sort of absorbs the flavor of whatever you cook it in."

"But meat does this, too," Alex says, already finished. He sets his plate on the coffee table and collapses back against the sofa cushions, visibly worn out. "I would not have known the difference."

"Good, then. That solves a lot of cooking problems right from the start."

"And there is Hard Rock or Planet Hollywood in case I'm desperate."

"Josh would go with you in a heartbeat," Jonathan sighs, grinning as he collects the papers together and pushes them out of reach of the messy dishes. "I think he really took to you, you know?"

"Yes, it would appear," agrees Alex, suddenly pensive. "This may come to hands in the future."

"In what way, other than co-opting him as your partner in flesh-consuming crime?"

"In the matter of informing your family that we are..."

"Carnal? _How_ , exactly?"

"Jonathan, my father was not stupid, and neither is your little brother. _That_ is in what way."

Jonathan nods, rubbing his temples, realizing that this is exactly the kind of circumstance requiring honesty.

"I was listening through the door. I'd finished up in the bathroom, and when I heard Josh ask you the question, I couldn't move. That little creep! He went through my desk drawers, though I can't imagine when—"

"They will always find a way, little brothers," mutters Alex, darkly.

"Yeah," Jonathan agrees, scooting over until their shoulders touch. He draws up his knees and leans to one side, reasting his head against Alex's shoulder. "It still scares the hell out of me."

"We must not be afraid," says Alex, simply, and gathers Jonathan close. "We _will_ not."

Already beginning to feel sleepy with the meal, Jonathan thinks that he might just understand the lullaby now, too.

 

**16 September 2000, 7:00 PM**

"Holy fuck," says Lisa, tucking a strand of violently red hair behind her ear as they approach. "You _exist_."

"Did you think I was making shit up?" asks Jonathan, mock-frowning at her. He glances at Alex to make sure the exchange isn't lost on him, and, judging by the quirked ghost of a smile, it isn't. "Not all fiction writers are unreliable."

"Of course they are," Lisa says, ruffling Jonathan's unruly hair with nicotine-stained fingers.

"I'm pleased to make your acquaintance, Lisa," Alex says, offering his right hand. "Jonathan has told me much about you, not least of your amusement regarding his transcription of my English."

"Description," Jonathan mutters under his breath, but Lisa can't hear him anyway, because she's already laughing in delight as she enthusiastically shakes Alex's hand.

"My God, it's really true," she's saying, her heavily-lined brown eyes catching glints of fluorescent light from the windows of Search & Destroy, a vintage clothing shop across the street. "It's an _honor_. So, do you like Japanese?"

Alex frowns for a second, then steals a glance at Jonathan.

"The language? No, I'm not so premium with it. In fact, I'm far underneath sub-premium, and that is a joke only Jonathan will understand."

"No, no," Lisa says, trying her best to stifle another giggle-fit. "Japanese _food_. That's what we're having, see?" She points to Dojo's sign, which is more or less above their heads. "Best and cheapest in the East Village. We should get a table; it crowds up fast."

"I haven't been here in ages," Jonathan says, jealously scanning the tables of outdoor diners as they file inside. They won't get an outdoor table unless they wait at least an hour, and his stomach's growling too adamantly for that. Alex holds the door for him, looking hunted.

"Don't worry," Jonathan whispers. "She's harmless. Really bubbly, though."

"Full of bubbles?"

"Vibrant. Lively. Joyful."

" _Ah_ ," Alex whispers, visibly relieved, and follows her to the bar.

"Table for three," she says, flashing her glitter-laced eyeshadow at the young Asian man behind the till.

"One moment," he says, unimpressed, and gathers up a handful of laminated menus.

They're stuck at a table in the back room, which is dimly lit and approaching stuffy. Still, the food's excellent, especially the vegetarian options. Right away, Lisa orders a pitcher of Bass IPA and asks Alex what his favorite drink is.

"I'm most fond of Coke, as I find it a premium soda," he says, not lifting his eyes from the menu. Jonathan can tell that he's perplexed by the descriptions. He's likely never heard of these dishes in his life.

"Oh, sorry," says Lisa, sheepishly. "I meant alcohol."

"Vodka is very common in Ukraine, so I tend to frequently indulge."

"Did you show Jonathan how shots are _really_ done?"

Alex lowers the menu and fixes her with a look of utter perplexity.

"No, there was no shooting of any kind on our visits. Why do you ask this?"

Lisa blinks at _him_ , as if he's just said something in Klingon.

Jonathan clears his throat, gesturing with one hand. "As in, shot-glasses full of vodka," he explains to Alex, then gives Lisa a hard look. "You've got to be a little clearer with him, okay?"

"Okay, sure," Lisa murmurs, dropping her gaze to the menu, embarrassed. "Did you show this fucking loser how vodka-drinking is done? Because I'm sure you could drink him under the table—um, drink more than he does without falling off your chair."

"No," Alex says, politely, as if to apologize for the tone of the entire conversation. "Grandfather did not bring vodka on the road, as it is not so healthy for driving. He indulged at the hotel restaurants, but Jonathan did not order any, nor did I take many shots myself."

"Are you ready to order?" asks the young man, setting down the pitcher of beer roughly in the center of the triangle formed by their seating arrangement.

"Yes," Jonathan says, eager to get Alex out of the line of friendly fire. "I'll have the Cold Sesame Noodles in Peanut Sauce, then the Dojo Vegetables on brown rice with tofu."

"And you?"

Alex spends a few more seconds staring at the menu before fixing Jonathan with a desperate look.

"Try the Beef Yakisoba. Do you want an appetizer?"

"Beef Yakisoba, please," Alex says, "and also some noodles with peanut sauce, which sound intricate."

"Chicken Yakisoba," Lisa chimes in before the waiter is finished scrawling Alex's order. "That's it."

"Great," he says, and strides off.

"The waitstaff here are really hot," Lisa says, giving Jonathan a narrow-eyed look that means she's about to tease him mercilessly. "Don't you think?"

"I don't know," replies Jonathan, casually, glancing back and forth between Lisa and Alex. "I never really thought about it. They're nice-looking, I guess."

Lisa leans forward, resting her chin on her folded hands. "The boys or the girls?"

Alex sips his beer, clearly intrigued, his eyes darting back and forth between them.

"I don't know!" Jonathan repeats, determined not to glare at Lisa and failing miserably. "Most of them aren't bad. I'm equal-opportunity where aesthetic pleasure is concerned."

"Yeah, that's always been his problem," Lisa says to Alex. "I'm sure you'll have him cured in no time."

"What?" asks Alex, mystified.

"Jonathan likes to look, but he doesn't touch," Lisa explains, swilling the contents of her glass. "But you seem to have cleared that problem _right_ up."

Alex's eyes are narrowed, too, as if he's finally caught on to the game she's playing.

"Yes, in fact," he says, almost coolly. "We have been carnal many times, but we are not limited just to this. The luminescence of our affair defies description, which means I can't utter it to you."

Jonathan finds it difficult not to crack up. Alex's calculated butchery is nothing short of brilliant, as Lisa seems simultaneously about to shut down at the idea of Jonathan being carnal with _anyone_ and about to start laughing so hard she'll end up snorting her beer.

"That's, um," she manages, setting her glass down so hard that some beer sloshes onto the table, "yeah. That'll do it. Good fucking _God_ , your English teacher must rock."

"It isn't my English teacher who leads me to speak this way, I can assure you," Alex says, grinning, and reaches across the table to clink his glass against hers. "To being carnal?"

"Hell yeah! To pretty boys, pretty girls, and to sex, _period_."

Once Lisa has gotten her glass in the air, Jonathan raises his, too, and they all drink to narrowly averted disaster.

 

**17 September 2000, 2:02 PM**

"Josh, _no_ ," says Jonathan into the receiver, aware that he sounds almost as petulant as the voice on the other end of the line. "Alex is exhausted from last night, and I've got a hangover."

"You want me to tell Mom that's why you can't come for dinner?" Josh asks, dangling the guilt like a pro.

"No," Jonathan says, running his fingers through his hair in frustration. Alex chooses that moment to roll over with a faint groan, burying his nose in Jonathan's unoccupied ear. "Tell her—"

"What was that?"

"Nothing," Jonathan snaps, desperate for an excuse. "Tell her we've got plans with Grandma."

"You do?" asks Josh, as if he thinks Jonathan is mad. "For _real_?"

"Well, yeah," Jonathan says, turning this option over in his mind. "She's from the Ukraine, after all, so she and Alex will probably have lots to talk about."

" _Ukraine_ ," mumbles Alex, sleepily, lightly tapping Jonathan on the hip.

"I _know_ ," Jonathan hisses, covering the receiver.

"Jonathan, you're being weird," says Josh, his uncertainty almost fearful.

"Sorry, look, I'm half awake," Jonathan explains, somewhat guiltily. "Tell you what, we'll come back tomorrow and—"

"Good morning, Alex!" Josh shouts, and forcefully hangs up.

"Holy fuck," Alex mutters, his entire body gone tense. Clearly, Lisa's turn of phrase has left an impression.

Jonathan hangs up and drops the phone on the floor, letting his hand dangle over the edge of the bed.

"You can say that again," he sighs, massaging the back of Alex's neck. "Want to meet my grandmother?"

"Does she live in a premium neighborhood of New York?"

"Yeah, Brooklyn's nice," Jonathan says, feeling the beginnings of a headache coming on.

Two hours later, they're standing on his grandmother's front porch, each one of them holding an offering: where Jonathan has chosen a box of upscale sugar-free chocolates, Alex cradles a bouquet of red and yellow gerberas. Promptly, the door swings open, and Sabine Foer studies them with soft intensity.

"Jonathan, come inside," she says, her English still heavily accented after more than fifty years. "Introduce me to your friend, and we will have tea."

Half an hour later, they're all seated around his grandmother's lace-covered wooden dining room table. The gerberas are in a cut-glass vase, catching the sunlight that filters through the lace curtains, and the chocolates are open, almost half gone. Jonathan hasn't been able to get a word in edgewise, and he barely understands a word they're saying, Russian or not. It's Jonathan's grandmother who breaks his silence, reaching over to pat the back of his hand.

"Very remarkable, that you should meet someone whose grandparents came from so near to Trachimbrod!"

Alex gives Jonathan a strained look, as if to say, _I have not been entirely faithful_.

"Yeah, I know," says Jonathan, brightly, finishing off his tea in one swallow. "Small world, isn't it?"

"Prague is a smaller world than you would think," Alex says, still talking out of his hat, only in English this time—in which, Jonathan supposes, he has plenty of experience. "There are many people, but there are only so many places to visit and manufacture photographs, and many people converge in these places."

Jonathan's grandmother is beaming at Alex, as if she gets his charm on the same wavelength that Lisa does.

"Has Jonathan been gracious and shown you New York?"

"Yes, in fact," Alex replies, adding another spoonful of sugar to his cup. "And we will make more excursions tomorrow, as it will be my final day in this country." The statement hits the pit of Jonathan's stomach like molten lead. He's been trying to avoid it, but reality persists.

"Jonathan, you must take him to see your grandfather."

Alex gives him a questioning look, but it melts immediately into somber comprehension.

Jonathan swallows. "I—yeah, I can do that. We can stop on our way home."

Sabine reaches for the vase with one sure, shaking hand and plucks up two of the gerberas, one of each color. She rises with effort, vanishes briefly into the kitchen, and returns with the blossoms' stems carefully wrapped in damp paper towel and a piece of cellophane.

"One for each of you," she says, pressing the gerberas into Jonathan's hand. "I am tired for today, Jonathan. Tell Josh that he should come help me tend the garden this week, and tell my daughter-in-law that she has not called me in four days. Your mother is a forgetful girl."

"I'll do that, Grandma," Jonathan says, rising, and leans to kiss her cheek.

Across the table, Alex is watching pensively, his eyes dark with remembrance.

 

**18 September 2000, 10:39 PM**

The club was Alex's idea, although he looks as if he's beginning to regret it, last night of his trip or not. He's staring at the complicated drink that Lisa ordered for him as if he doesn't know what to do with it, and Jonathan is aware that his own expression is probably a dead ringer. Still, after filling out those government funding applications all day, they both need the booze. Lisa sips on her own happily, bouncing in her chair to the wild techno beat. For a Monday night, there's a fuckload of people on the dance floor, she says.

"You come here often?" Alex asks, raising his voice to make sure she can hear him.

"Not _here_ here, but I club fairly often, yeah!"

"I see," Alex says, and takes a tentative sip of his cocktail. "Does Jonathan often accompany you?"

Jonathan lowers his eyes and samples his cocktail, cringing at the high vodka content.

"Are you kidding?" Lisa yells, laughing hysterically. "No _way_! I dragged him along all of once, and every time I've invited him since, he's found a convenient reason not to come!"

"You have never informed me of this," Alex says, leaning close to Jonathan so that he doesn't have to shout.

"There was nothing to tell," Jonathan mutters, taking longer sip of his drink, which also seems to contain something tasting of raspberry and something tasting of peach. "I sat in the corner and covered my ears."

"Just like he's doing now," Lisa chimes in, leaning across the table. "Alex, you wanna dance?" Her breath smells like an entire bottle of Bacardi.

"No, that is quite fine," he says, smiling apologetically. "You go. We'll watch and discuss what a premium dancer you are."

"I see the way it is," she says, but in a heartbeat, she's on her feet, swaying and tossing her shoulder-length hair. It has black streaks that definitely weren't there on Saturday evening.

"She is really something else," Alex remarks, stirring his drink with his straw. "This is tasting of fruits, what about yours?"

"Yeah," Jonathan says, grimacing. "And Smirnoff."

"Next time, I'll bring some real vodka from Ukraine," says Alex, decisively, "and we'll invite her to your apartment and, how do you call it, do shots?"

"Yep, that's how," Jonathan says, grinning, and reaches for Alex's hand under the table. It's warm and faintly damp. Alex wipes his palm hastily on his jeans, and then twines their fingers tightly. Jonathan replays the sentence in his memory, and opens his mouth to ask—

"I have previously said 'dub,' but I've been informed that 'call' is the proper idiom," Alex explains, pleased with himself for having anticipated Jonathan's remark. "I have learned this most recently."

"Your English teacher?"

"Web search."

"Ah," says Jonathan, and just as he's about to suggest getting them something different to drink, someone dances right into Lisa's empty chair, almost knocking it over. For a split second, Jonathan finds it impossible to speak, even to ask if they're all right, because the young man's coffee-and-cream skin and black gypsy eyes are stunning, something pulled from the pages of his ill-fated imagination. Jonathan's second thought is that he looks slightly too young to be in a club, seventeen or eighteen at most.

"Are you okay?" Alex asks, rising and reaching across the table, but the young man is already brushing himself off, laughing as if it's the most fun he's had all day.

"Yeah, man," he says, giving Alex an improvised high-five that isn't actually high, but that, judging by Alex's expression, is the coolest cultural exchange he's had this entire trip.

"Way to go, Zero!" yells somebody from the middle of the dance floor, and a chorus of whooping breaks out just as another young man, not much older—pale, tall, and awkward—stumbles his way over and catches the Gypsy Girl's opposite-gendered ghost by the shoulders.

"Oh my God, are you okay?" he asks, out of breath. His fingers dig into his friend's shoulders, urgent and reverent all at once.

"For crying out loud, _yes_ ," says the young man, laughing again, and spins them both back onto the dance floor. For the next few seconds, Jonathan finds it impossible to look away: the pale guy isn't a good dancer, but his boyfriend—no mistaking that now—moves with uncanny grace, and he's got his arms around the other guy's neck, dark eyes gleaming with half a dozen strobe-lit colors.

Alex, who hasn't found the chance to sit down again, gives Jonathan a meaningful look.

"I see that you were not lying about New York at all," he says, his voice light with amazement.

"Why would I have lied?" he asks. _Bottoms up_ , he thinks, and removes the straw before downing the rest of his cocktail in a few breathless swallows. He stands, swaying for a second until his head adjusts to the vodka, and offers Alex his hand.

"Dance with me?"

Alex looks embarrassed, but his expression seems to say that this dream, of all dreams, is the most precious.

"Yes, my Safran," he says in Russian, accepting Jonathan's hand. "I will."

 _It's so_ , Jonathan thinks, and leads Alex—not without misgivings, _never_ without remembrance —into the haze of color and sound.


	7. Between Time and Hope

**To:** odessawithlove@hotmail.com  
 **From:** trachimbrodtales@yahoo.com  
 **Date:** 19-Sep-2000 10:21  
 **Subject:** It took a lot of willpower not to write this yesterday.

 

Dear Alex,

I figured it would take you at least twenty-four hours to get back, get some sleep, get situated, etc. I'm worried about you, of course, but I worry too much, so don't listen to me. Just drop me a line when you get this to let me know you arrived safely. I'm emailing you from work, which is risky, because Lisa or somebody could come up behind me any second oh, see, too late. Lisa says hello in bad Russian.

Love,  
Jonathan

P.S. I would ask a couple of your professors to do those rec-letters ASAP. Once you've got them all, mail them to me and I'll put them with the applications and send everything off for you.///;w Lisa wouldn't stop poking me in the side with her pen unless I told you she says we're cute even on email. I hate women.

 

 

*****

**To:** trachimbrodtales@yahoo.com  
 **From:** odessawithlove@hotmail.com  
 **Date:** 21-Sep-2000 15:45  
 **Subject:** I hate jet-lag, or is this the opposite of jet-lag? I am indefinite.

 

Dear Jonathan,

I'm astonished that Lisa has succeded in causing you to type badly! Tell her that this is a magnanimous accomplishment, and that I'll take her statement as a compliment rather than as a sample of poking. Which is a pun, accidentally, I swear to you that I'm being faithful! Hello, Lisa, in premium English. However, I imagine that you will no longer be at work when you read this, or at least I hope you will not be at work when you read this, as I often write things to you that intend to be read in private.

I've asked my English professor and also another professor just this afternoon to write (I prefer the truncated way in which you call them) the rec-letters. They seemed at first in consternation when I explained that they would need to manufacture seven letters each, but when I clarified that I meant seven copies of the same letter, they were exceedingly relieved. They also wanted to know if American universities do this only to un-American students, but I reassured them that even American students and professors must put up with this nonsense. They have said they'll give them to me via departmental mail. _Via departmental mail_ is a useful phrase, and I note that _via_ in and of itself (also a useful phrase!) has many potential uses in other contexts. I have made a mental note (even more useful, as I used to _write things on my brain_ ) to experiment with it in the future, perhaps in my accounting studies (cross your fingers, Jonathan).

Mother and Iggy met me at the airport, which I didn't expect in the least. Mother seems very happy with the not-sugar-free chocolates that you helped me to select, and Iggy is so happy with his shirt that I think perhaps he will not hate me again for at least a week. He asked me immediately, "Alli, did you heart New York?" And I said, "Yes, I loved New York to smithereens. It's a premium city!" He replied, "Then I will heart New York," and put on the shirt immediately, even though he was already wearing one. He also inquired if Joshua had learned any Russian, and I told him, "A little bit." I hate to say it, Jonathan, but your brother will be fluid with it more quickly than you if you continue to teach him, because he will go on the internet and find Russian chat rooms. I know this because Iggy has proudly announced that he is learning English from chat rooms at the public library when Mother takes him to the city once a week. He has learned the parlance _no duh, butthead_ without consulting me first. I'm falling behind in the department of street cred, I've begun to discern.

Anyway, I have gotten this far without writing anything that intends to be read in private, which is unfortunate, because if I will miss anything about New York, it will be having privacy with you. This isn't a satisfying way of expressing my sentiment, however, and it is what Lisa would call _coy_ , so I will venture to be daring and say that it is the way we made love at your apartment after dancing that I miss.

Yours (because that's how I think of myself),  
Alex

P.S. Why do you hate women? American women are premium, especially Lisa. Perhaps she should find an American woman of her own, and then she will no longer desire to poke you or bother men in restaurants. Tell her that 69ing is above premium, and that it is even more so for lesbians (and for homosexual men, in case you would like to torment her).

 

 

*****

**24 September 2000, 1:48 AM / 8:48 AM**

_Ring_. _Ring ring_. _Ring_. _Ring ri —_

" _...blin. Allo? Mama?_ " [1]

"Um...no, sorry, not your mom. Alex?"

"Jonathan! I'm sorry, the only person who would call—"

"Look, it's okay. Relax. I woke you up, didn't I?"

"That would be a correct assessment, but I can hardly be angry with you."

"Good. Good. I mean, it's good to hear your voice."

"It's good to hear yours also. I have not been sleeping well."

"I can tell."

"Jonathan?"

"Yeah? What?"

"There is something wrong with your voice."

"It's almost two in the morning. I'm tired. Don't worry about it. Mom made me stay and go to synagogue, and she and Dad and Josh kept me pretty late."

"And..."

"Alex, I told you. I'm really fucking tired."

"Yes, but there is something else. Instead of going to bed, you are calling me."

"...not that tired, I guess."

"Jonathan, I regret to inform you that you're not a premium liar."

"I don't know how to tell you this."

"Tell me any way you are able."

"It...oh, fuck. I can't believe this."

" _Jonathan_. I'll say this very clearly, in case you are not listening to me: I love you, and I am worried shitless. _What_ is going on?"

"Right, okay, I'll start at the beginning. I hoped you'd say something like that. Um, right. Josh stayed over on Friday night, and I made the mistake of going to bed while he was still awake in the living room. He usually just falls asleep with the Game Boy on his chest, you know? Well, when I woke up Saturday morning, I heard voices—Mom had apparently gotten there early to pick him up, and Josh had let her in. Why they didn't just _leave_ , I don't know, but as my mind cleared it became pretty damned apparent that they were talking in low voices so as not to wake me, or so I wouldn't hear, or... Look, my computer was turned on, and it was about then that I got up, tried not to freak out, and went out there."

" _Chort! Tolko ne govori, chto on prochital pismo!_ Fuck. I mean —" [2]

"He did, Alex. He really, really did. I signed off Yahoo, but he cracked my password, or maybe the cookies held onto it even though I told them not to, or something."

"Cookies? What does that have to do with—"

"Nothing. It's an internet programming thing. Listen to me! Anyway, I got the talking-to of my life from Mom while Josh sat there looking like the traitor he is. At least he had the sense to be ashamed, but I'm telling you, Mom said that she was really disappointed in me, and a lot worse things, too—"

" _S-s-suka_ , what—" [3]

"No, they're not worth repeating. So. I got dragged home for dinner and synagogue, after which Mom chewed me out some more without Josh present, and she told me on my way out the door that she'd be telling Dad when he gets home from California on Monday. I don't know what he'll say. I mean, I don't think they would disown me or anything, but I'm really afraid..."

"Of what, Jonathan?"

"That they'll tell my grandmother."

" _Blyad_. I can see why you would not want this."  [4]

"But I thought about it for a while after I got home, you know? It's hypocrisy. Why _shouldn't_ she know? She won't understand, let alone be happy about it. I've never heard her insult a gay person, but I have the feeling there wasn't a word for that where she comes from. Where our families came from. Do you think there were many gays in Trachimbrod?"

"I think that there have been homosexuals everywhere, in all times, but that we have not handled them properly. And it is most difficult when we find that it is ourselves we've done injustice."

"Yeah—Jesus, _yeah_. Where do you get that stuff?"

"I don't understand, Jonathan."

"Never mind. What I mean is, you always know what to say."

"I can't help you with your family, and I hate this. I am part of it."

"They're my problem, not yours."

"But they will be my family, even if they do not accept me. Do you see? They are already my family. Your mother has fed me at her table, just as my mother has fed you at her table. In this way, my family is also yours."

"Right. But I mean that this particular battle is mine to fight, not yours."

"Possibly, but I should be there to give you strength."

"You do, Alex. It's why I called you."

"I wish you had done it before you started crying."

"I'm not crying."

"You were. For a long time, yes, before calling?"

"Yes. Fine."

"No, it's not fine. I wish for you to call me before you cry, is this clear?"

"In the future, you mean?"

" _Yes_ , Jonathan. Why must you be so foolish?"

"Because Jewish people have shit for brains? Hell if I know."

"It's very good to hear you make a joke."

"Yeah, because it's _your_ joke. Egotist."

"Fiction writer."

"Wow, do you have any idea how low that was?"

"Yes, I have learned it from Lisa. Did you give her my messages?"

"Yeah, I did. She wants to email you herself. Can I give her your address?"

"I suppose. She can send to me the irritating forward-things that you don't like."

"Always the martyr."

"What?"

"It's a figure of speech. It means you're always eager to take the worst in a bad situation."

"I would say that you are sometimes this, too."

"Of course I am. I'm Jewish."

"This joke is not mine, so I must applaud you."

"Ha. Honored, I guess. God, all of this..."

"Please don't cry."

"I'm trying not to."

"I'm trying also."

"I love you."

"You too. Jonathan, you should sleep."

"I don't think I'll be able to."

"You must sleep anyway. This conversation is getting long, and your mother will not be pleased."

"Yeah, fuck her. Call it my revenge."

"There are better ways to do it. I'll try to think of ways to help you, but you must hang up now, because then you will not be able to talk for long on Monday."

"Monday?"

"Your father. I want you to call me after your father speaks to you."

"Oh. I probably would've done that anyway, but thanks for the concern."

"Jonathan, there is no way I would _not_ be concerned about you. _Ponimaesh?_ " [5]

" _Da, ponimayu_."  [6]

" _Vot i slava Bogu_. Now, my Safran, you must sleep."  [7]

"I can't tell you what it's like, hearing you call me that."

"Do you not like it? I can stop."

"Don't you ever."

"Then I won't. Please go to sleep."

"I'll try. 'Bye."

"Good night."

 _Click_.

 

 

*****

**To:** trachimbrodtales@yahoo.com  
 **From:** odessawithlove@hotmail.com  
 **Date:** 25-Sep-2000 11:32  
 **Subject:** Sitting on needles and pins

 

because that is what I'm doing. I know that it is still very very early in the morning for you, and that your father will not get home until later, but please, please call me as soon as you are able.

Love,  
Alex

 

 

*****

**To:** odessawithlove@hotmail.com  
 **From:** trachimbrodtales@yahoo.com  
 **Date:** 25-Sep-2000 19:57  
 **Subject:** Got your message.

 

Calling you now.

—J

 

 

*****

**25 September 2000, 8:00 PM / 26 September 2000, 3:00 AM**

_Ring —_

"Jonathan?"

"Yeah, it's me. Hi."

"Hi. Are you feeling okay?"

"No, actually. I feel pretty nauseous."

"Then sit down and make some deep breaths before you speak."

"I'm sitting down, and all I did on the way home _was_ take deep breaths to keep from spazzing out."

"Spazzing out?"

"Freaking out. Same thing."

"Jonathan, this is not good. Breathe some more."

"Okay. _Okay_."

"I'll talk to you so that you will not talk yet. Iggy wishes for me to tell you that he sends greetings, and that he thinks American chat rooms are _excellent_. He says it exactly in that tone of voice, which I find very strange. Perhaps this is some mystery you can explain to me once we've gotten unpleasant things out of the way. Mother also sends her greetings, but she did not use any English. She told me that Father has contacted her with a letter, and with the letter he included some important papers. She didn't explain further, but I think that these papers will make them no longer married, which is good. I'll be very happy to see her marry Andriy, because he is a decent human being. Sammy Davis Junior, Junior continues to make rigid searches for Grandfather, though she has not been successful. I think —"

"Hard. Rigorous, I mean."

"What?"

"Searches. Rigorous searches."

"I can see that you are calm now. Will you tell me what your father said?"

"I'll summarize, if you want."

"As long as you are faithful."

"Right. Well—first off, he didn't threaten to tell my grandmother or anything, and neither did Mom, so I guess I was right about them being mostly sane. He started off a lot like Mom did; he's disappointed in me, he doesn't understand how I could be so reckless. _Reckless_. Can you imagine? I asked him what he meant by that, and he muttered a lot of nonsense about foreigners and STDs. And I was like, whoa, wait, I'm more in danger of that if I were to sleep around with some of my co-workers, thank you very much, and you weren't even concerned about _that_? Oh, of course we were concerned, he said, but it wasn't very convincing. And Mom just sat there staring down at her hands, and I realized how much Josh looks like her, as much as I look like Dad and my grandfather. Surreal. By that point, I'd missed Dad yammering on about how I'd disappointed Mom, how she'd been looking forward to me getting married one day, that sort of thing, and I said, well, Josh will get married, won't he? And Dad said something to the effect of me being a bad role model for him, and it was at that point that I told them both to go to hell and walked out. I mean, I actually stood up, said _go to hell_ , and left. They won't let me set foot in the house ever again."

"But you don't know this. You didn't let them answer you."

"They'd already said too much, Alex. They fucking _insulted_ you, so I wasn't going to sit there and take any more of it. They insulted Josh, too, in a way. As if my example is the _only_ thing that will define him, the way he turns out, his sexuality? What a bunch of bullshit."

"I'm in agreement with you, but I think that you will hear more from them upon the subject."

"They'll never let Josh come over here again. Oh, God."

"Somehow, I think that this isn't rational. He's your brother."

"Yeah, but I'm a bad role model."

"Let your brother be the judge of this, Jonathan."

"What will you do when your family finds out? Huh?"

"I don't know, Jonathan. Perhaps you would like to write a letter to my mother?"

"No. Jesus, no. I didn't mean it like that. I'm not bitter."

"My family is very far away from you, and they will be very far away from both of us when I return to America. If I return to America. They will not see what your family will see, and they will not have reasons to suspect."

"I suppose they're the lucky ones."

"No, Jonathan. They're very unfortunate. They won't see you very often, and this saddens me."

"Even if they might hate my guts if they knew what I was to you?"

"Does your family hate my guts, as you say? Or are they simply afraid?"

"...don't know. I kind of didn't think to ask."

"There's no need for being sarcastic. I'm asking for your judgment."

"They're probably just afraid."

"See? This is not dreadful. It will take time, but—"

"And will your family be afraid, or will they hate me?"

"My mother, she will get used to it. Iggy will be confused, and may not speak with us for a while. My father would have hated you. My grandfather did not."

"Thank goodness for that. And your stepfather-to-be?"

"I don't care what he thinks, because he is not my grandfather."

"Fair enough. And, as you pointed out, they're going to be too far away to do anything about it."

"Jonathan, when will I hear from the universities? Will it be long?"

"I'm afraid so. You probably won't hear from them till March or April next year."

"At least this gives me time not to think about it."

"You know, I'm glad you're this sensible. I'm glad one of us is sensible. I've never been."

"On the contrary, you're more sensible than you think. You have gotten a job, whereas I am endeavoring to remain a student for two years more."

"Yeah, but you'll be able to get a good job with that degree. In theory."

"If I get a job in America, they'll let me remain, yes?"

"Yeah, it's called a work visa. Either that or Lisa would have to marry you."

"Why would I want this?"

"I'm joking. A marriage of convenience to keep you in the country wouldn't be preferable, but I said Lisa because I obviously can't marry you to keep you here. Not yet, anyway. We're really behind the times."

"Like Ukraine, in some ways."

"Yeah. Except for the state of Vermont, but a civil union wouldn't be recognized on the national level."

"I think that I understand, but you will have to explain this."

"I will. In the meantime, you sound about ready to collapse. Did I wake you?"

"No. I was waiting by the phone."

"You must be exhausted. You sound it."

"I suppose I'm very tired, yes. But I'm glad to hear from you and know what's going on."

"I feel like a jerk for keeping you up. It's not really that big; I feel a hundred times better now that I've gotten it off my chest. I'll keep you updated via email, though, as I'm sure we haven't heard the end of it, and I have to wonder what kind of half-assed punishment my parents will try to inflict on me."

"Do you think they will? You're an adult, you no longer live with them."

"They'll try, trust me."

"I would rather not trust you in a matter like this one, but I know that you're right. I did not meet your father, but fathers can be very...hard in matters like these."

"This is where _I_ tell _you_ to go to bed. Please?"

"Your request will not be difficult to follow, I'm afraid."

" _Ya tebe kokhayu_. Sleep well?"

"You too, Jonathan. I will try."

 _Click_.

 

 

 

 

*

**To:** odessawithlove@hotmail.com  
 **From:** trachimbrodtales@yahoo.com  
 **Date:** 26-Sep-2000 21:10  
 **Subject:** Fallout

Dear Alex,

Well, the good news is that they didn't disown me.

The bad news, I guess, is that they're fucking royalty where pulling guilt-trips is concerned. Mom treats me like an acquaintance at best and a familiar stranger at worst. Dad's not around enough for me to tell how he's treating me. They haven't forbidden Josh to come over, apparently, but this weekend's visit is going to be for about four or five hours on Friday evening instead of a sleep-over. Coincidence? I think not. It could be that Josh is behind it, though, because I can tell his silence isn't because he hates me. It's because he's ashamed of what he did, and my guess is that he'll try to apologize sooner or later. Either that or he'll just start looking me in the eye again, and I'll know everything's cool. I can't help but remember the way he asked you that question—so straightforward, no malice. His heart's in the right place. I think he just couldn't handle being faced with the gritty details, you know? And he couldn't come to me, because it would've meant confessing to reading my email. He and Mom _are_ kind of close. I shouldn't be so shocked. It would've come to this anyway, and you know, it's kind of a relief. From here on out, I really don't care what happens, as long as it doesn't get any worse.

In the meantime, Lisa has been an absolute lifesaver. I called her on Monday before Dad got home to fill her in, and she was positively livid. She did have some good advice to give, as she went through this two years ago with her mom and her younger sisters (although I get the impression that people who come out as bi at least have the advantage of their families thinking, well, fifty-fifty chance...) I swear, you two have a lot in common, as she basically told me the same thing you did: that I should listen to what they have to say, even if I can't stand it. Given that they're not being so talkative, that hasn't been difficult. Only my grandmother's going about business as usual, and for that, I'm really grateful. I haven't visited her since all of this went down, but I think I'll go see her tomorrow after work. She said on the phone about half an hour ago that the gerberas are still blooming, and that she's thinking of you. By extension, I think she's thinking of the Ukraine. Sorry. Ukraine, _Ukraina_. I'm learning.

There's something in the way that grandparents deal with their grandchildren that's infinitely more forgiving than the way that parents deal with their children, isn't there? It's like watching their children grow and do whatever the hell they want for so many years has given them that much more distance, that much more patience. I have to wonder what would have happened if I had just told my grandmother the truth in the first place. She probably would've spent only one breath on reprimanding me for taking such a dangerous journey, and after that, she would've asked me what it was like, and after _that_ , she would've interrupted me every other sentence with passionate descriptions of the way she remembers things. This is my grandmother, the woman who shouted words off of balconies with me when I was a child. The woman who let me hide under her skirt, the woman who made me feel safe. She still does, and I don't know what I'll do when she's gone.

This message is depressing, but I'm not sure how to redeem it. I think that some things just _are_ depressing, and you have to let them be. What's most depressing of all, I think, is that you've been gone exactly a week now. You left one of your shirts here. I'm wrapped in it.

Love,  
Jonathan

 

 **To:** odessawithlove@hotmail.com  
 **From:** trachimbrodtales@yahoo.com  
 **Date:** 29-Sep-2000 11:32  
 **Subject:** Is everything okay, or have you just been busy?

 

I know you've gone a few days without answering in the past, but it was when you were moving house and taking exams, etc. Sorry, I worry too much. I keep having nightmares that your family's going to do the same thing to you that mine is doing to me. Josh didn't come over this evening. Too much homework, Mom said.

Your shirt's comfortable, but you probably knew that, seeing as it's yours.

—J

 

 

*****

**To:** trachimbrodtales@yahoo.com  
 **From:** odessawithlove@yahoo.com  
 **Date:** 1-Oct-2000 16:42  
 **Subject:** Forgive me, I have been thinking.

 

Dearest Jonathan,

Forgive me, forgive me, in case I have not made this point clear. I didn't mean to make you concerned, because, as you have said, it has taken me several days (or longer) to answer you on many occasions in the past. However, I am not pleased to admit that this time it has been for an unfaithful reason, as I have checked my email many times in the past two days, and read your messages over and over. The subject of my thoughts has been something from our phone conversation, which you would guess if I were not intent upon telling you.

What concerns me is the matter of one of your jokes, and I know that you fully intended it as only a joke. I know that you wouldn't inquire of Lisa to marry me, even to keep me in America. You would do everything in your power to help me apply to jobs that would give me a visa, or perhaps abduct me to Vermont or California (see, I have been doing my own research on this matter). While these last two things are frivolous notions, it is the heart of the matter that I find most important. You spoke of marriage, an impossible thing. However, it would not be impossible for us to spend a lifetime together in spite of this if we were determined enough, and it is this that has most effectively silenced me. I did not expect to hear you say such a thing, and while it does not distress me, it does, as you say, give me pause.

I would like to think that such a thing would be possible, but I cannot think beyond even getting accepted to one of the universities. What if none of them accept me? What will we do then?

It may be cruel to leave you with these questions, my Safran, but they have haunted me for days.

Love and many more apologies,  
Alex

P.S. I'm content that my shirt is there, since I can't be.

 

 

*****

**To:** odessawithlove@hotmail.com  
 **From:** trachimbrodtales@yahoo.com  
 **Date:** 1-Oct-2000 10:45  
 **Subject:** You know, I was kind of afraid of that.

 

Dear Alex,

God, I'm such a putz. Total moron. All I can think is, good _fucking_ grief, do I really have that little regard for tact when all I can think about is my own problems? I didn't mean it to come out like that, I really didn't, but I'd be lying if I tried to claim I didn't _want_ to bring it up somehow, you know, like the question was going to come up sooner or later just like this whole mess was going to happen sooner or later. What will we do if none of the universities accept you? I don't know, fly you over here and find you some other job, and go six-month visa by six-month visa if we have to. I think it's six months. Holding a degree and getting a swanky accounting job isn't the only way to get a work visa. I'm not up on what those other ways are, but I'm sure that once Lisa's got me calmed down again, she'll have some good advice on that, too. She somehow managed to live in the UK for, like, two years without returning to the States. No joke. All I'm saying is, there are ways, but I don't want you thinking you're not going to get into school here. At least one of them will accept you, if not two or three of them. I'm sure they must get worse applications than yours, and I'm not saying yours are _bad_. They'd better not be, seeing as I went over them. ARGH. I'm not saying you perpetually need me as your editor, either. God, nothing I'm saying is coming out right. I'm trying my best to be reassuring here, trying my best to tell you that if you give up hope, goddamn it, I will personally fly over there and drag you back. After one taste of defeatist bullshit, whether it all your grandfather or a little bit you or whatever, I'm not going to let that happen again, got it? Maybe I'm an idealist, but now that I've learned what it's like not to be in denial about love and commitment, I'm telling you what. I'm sick and fucking tired of the way things go in my imagination; my imagination is _not_ real life, and the dreams of a dying man aren't real life, either. We're not dead, Alex. We didn't drown. We're sitting under the same stars, and somehow the white line manages to exist, and it gets more vivid all the time. I never saw it until you told me that it existed, and now that I can see it, it's _all_ that I can see.

We will do this, Alex. We will.

All my love,  
Your Safran

(for I have much to atone for, and this is how I think of myself now, too)

 

 

*****

To: trachimbrodtales@yahoo.com  
 **From:** odessawithlove@yahoo.com  
 **Date:** 3-Oct-2000 14:05  
 **Subject:** I have made some decisions, too.

 

Dear Jonathan, my Safran, my love,

It has occurred to me, through two days of reading your words over and over again, that you have changed as much in the time that we have known each other as I have changed since we first met. You have become a very faithful person; you are no longer nomadic—evasive, if you prefer it—with the truth. Your words are full of hope, and it is hope that I dared not utter, amongst all things, which ashames me deeply. That I could admit love to you, but not hope? That is completely unthinkable, and it has also occurred to me that I'm the one who has not been faithful. I accept your apologies, and I ask for your forgiveness.

There are many things that we must prepare to face, and I know what I must do to make these things foolproof. I have spoken with Mother, and she agrees that it would be most wise if I move out of Odessa and into the house which she shares with Andriy, Iggy, and Sammy Davis Junior, Junior. This will permit me to save my funds and possibly find work in her café and earn more. Now that I have finished university, there is nothing to keep me here except for privacy and access to email, and though I do not wish to give these things up, they are temporary conveniences standing in the way of a more worthy goal.

It will not be easy for me to give up the university computers, as Mother and Andriy certainly don't have one. It is possible that the village has a library, but I wouldn't put stock in that. What I'm telling you is that this will probably be the last email that I send you for a long while, at least from Ukraine. My suggestion is that we revert back to letters, as they have served us well in the past. There is a file attached to this message, and in it you will find my mother's address and phone number. I'd appreciate it if you could notify the universities of the change in my contact information. However, do not fret. I will keep my mobile, as I would be foolish to part with it.

I hope that this does not strike you as a shock, or as a kind of cutting of ties. I am taking your offer of hope in both hands, for you have more than enough of it for both of us, and I hope that I will, in time, contribute just as much. Write to me, Jonathan. Come and find me.

Yours, yours _always_ ,  
Alex

(yes, we will do this, we will)

 

 

*** * ***

_10 October 2000_

_Dear Alex,_

_I admit that it took a lot of willpower not to call you when I got that last email. I was angry; I thought, my God, that's a lot of nerve, and I'm going to call him and tell him exactly what I think, seeing as we make such a big deal about telling each other exactly what we think. But, to be perfectly honest, the anger didn't last very long. I decided to take a cue from you and read it over and over for a few days, just to make sure I wasn't missing anything —and it wasn't so much that I'd missed something; it was more that I'd been blinded by the sense of _this is it for now, but here's how you can reach me _. I panicked, which is exactly what I did when your translation of your grandfather's letter arrived. I thought, oh no, not this, not again. I thought we were past this. We are, though, and I'm mostly being an idiot. I understand your decision; it's a smart one. The more I think about it, the more I realize that I don't want you to be paying rent when you could be living with your mother and Iggy free of charge. I'd also like you to spend as much time with them as you can, as I know that leaving them won't be easy for you. Even staying behind in Odessa when they moved in with Andriy was hard for you; I could tell by the way you wrote about it and by how worn you looked when I met you at the airport. It's only been two weeks since I saw you off, hasn't it? Maybe three? The faster time moves, the faster I lose track. There are things about time I could do without._

 _There are also things about time that I_ couldn't _do without, like hope. It's a fragile thing, I know, but the relationship between time and hope is essential, and I think it's what I missed when I was working on the book. You can't have one without the other, because hope is the only thing that time has to live for. Otherwise, time doesn't actually exist. It's a human invention. We wouldn't measure our movement through space and love in time if we didn't have something to hope for. And I don't know about you, but I have a lot to hope for, more than I've ever had in my life; and there's a point past which hope is belief._

_I've emailed all of the universities with your change of address. Two have gotten back to me saying that the change has been made; the others will all catch up within the week, I'm sure. As for the government, they'll probably send you a stern, official letter at your mother's address saying that they've noted the change and reminding you that it's very important to keep them in the know. Throw it away._

_This letter won't reach you for almost two weeks. In that time, I'll be tempted on more than one occasion to call you, but I'll resist, because I understand that the completion of this first handwritten exchange —though not really our first—is essential. To recast your favorite metaphor in new terms: I am Hope, Alex, and you are Time. I will always know where to find you, so long as you live for me._

_From Greenwich Shtetl with love,  
Jonathan_

 

 

**___________________________**

[1] "...fuck. Hello? Mother?"

[2] "Fuck! Don't tell me he read the email!"

[3] "That bitch"

[4] "Fucking shit"—or, literally translated, _whore_.

[5] "Understand?"

[6] "Yes, I understand."

[7] "Good"—literally, _bless God for that_.


	8. Neither Here Nor There

_27 October 2000_

_Dear Jonathan,_

_Your letter reached me four days ago, during which time I could not consider replying to you because Mother and Andriy were supremely nosy about why I've been very silent since returning from New York. I must tell you, I've done a possibly reckless thing in admitting to them that the reason for my silence is that I miss you more than I have ever missed another person, almost more than I miss Grandfather, although this part I did not say to them, because Mother would have found it irreverent. They have done well in trying to console me, although Iggy is suspicious and thinks that I may be doing this only to collect pity —in other terms, money—before returning to America. He has asked me many times if I'll bring him with me, and my answer, sadly, has been more silence. I don't know an efficacious way in which to tell him that this is not possible._

_I've been thinking about time, Jonathan —and the things that you have said about it, and hope and love, and how they are all entwined. Your recasting of my favorite metaphor, as you call it, is an exceedingly correct assessment, and I've been made to eat an entire humble pie, not just a piece. I hope that you will forgive my seeming lack of belief in our future, because it is not a lack of belief, but a lack of rationality with which to consider it. To bring back a previous subject, I miss you every time that we part, and each time we part, this feeling seems to increase experimentally. I know that you'll tell me the word I'm looking for is _exponentially _, but I'm telling you now that this is not the word I'm looking for. I say_ experimentally _because I believe that my mind has decided to make a test of time and hope and everything in between. Only if I can survive this increasing madness will I reach you again and be capable of accepting what hardships are to come. Don't be alarmed by this, please. You are already in more hardships than I would wish, and many of these hardships, I'm culpable for. I hope you'll tell me what has happened with your parents since the last time we spoke, and I also hope that you don't think I don't want you to call me. This is a confession that, although I have been disheartened in the absence of the sound of your voice, I will understand if your mother has deprived you of dialing rights. May I say this is a stylish phrase? Perhaps it will lift your spirits, as I believe we may both be in need of it. I've come to believe in many difficult things._

_Your letter was like a ghost on the kitchen table, something familiar and infinitely frightening at the same time. I held it in my hands for an hour before opening it, as I was certain that it would vanish if what was contained in it was true. I could almost miss the days when you sent me lies, Jonathan, just to know that what you sent me was real because you had invented it and because it was protecting us from a pain so great that only staring directly into the sun would have compared. I think it's why we looked at the stars instead, but we were very foolish to have done this, because staring into the sun is staring into a star that happens to be very close. Is this a story that you would like to hear? Somehow, I think that the truth is better than a story even now, and that the truth —that there is no such thing as sunlight—is comforting. Still, it has taken me time and distance to realize that I took pleasure in your stories, suns-disguised-as-stars, and that these long months of winter ahead should be filled with sunlight until the stars fall, until letters that aren't yours begin to come._

_я тебя люблю, my Safran,  
Alex_

 

*****

_11 November 2000_

_Dear Alex,_

_I tried to find some kind of clever Russian endearment online, but most of them were too embarrassing for me to consider. Somehow, I don't think that calling you_ my little carrot _or_ my little bird _would have gotten the point across, but then again, maybe it would have —maybe these things aren't funny to native Russian speakers. I always felt funny about _my little cabbage _in high school French, though, I can tell you that right now. What is it about Europeans and vegetables? Did your ancestors find them adorable? Okay, to be fair, I should say_ our _ancestors. I've very recently come into an astonishing amount of anger towards my grandmother, but she doesn't know about it, and it's going to stay that way. Why didn't she and my grandfather raise my father and his brothers as bilingual? Seriously, it wouldn't have been so hard to speak Russian or Ukrainian around the house. I'm still not sure which one it was they spoke the most; I know you spoke to her in Russian when we went to visit, and that she spoke it back to you, but that's the first time in my life I can remember her speaking one of her native languages within my adult earshot. When I was little, she and Grandpa would speak to each other in —again, I really don't know which—all the time when they didn't want me to know they were talking about getting me to take a bath and go to bed. It's funny, the the things we dreaded when we were children. These days, a bath is a walk in the park._

 _Not to change the subject, but what are you asking me for, exactly? Stories? A new novel? Journal entries speculating on the outcome of my ongoing family drama_ à la _the journal entries I made about your family while I was in Ukraine? Frankly, I feel like shit for having done that. I haven't written in my journal for a while, as I think that my correspondence with you has somehow supplanted that particular practice._ Deprived of dialing rights _is stylish, all right, and that's exactly why I think writing another novel would be a really bad idea. I don't have your flair, and, even as your English continues to improve, my Russian continues to go nowhere. I have to say, though, I was shocked that I could understand you on the phone. I was especially impressed by what you called my mom; that means_ bitch _, doesn't it, or something similar? Anyway, it was sibilant and venomous and I'm sure you don't need a Bible lesson from a Jew in order to figure it out. I'm getting the feeling that, before long, I'm going to be able to start talking lit crit with you and you'll be running circles around me. Remind me why you're going into accounting? You'd make a kick-ass English professor, and the girls would fall in love with your accent._

_(I can't think of anything to say. I can't think of a story to tell you. You know all there is to know about the sun and the stars, every secret, and I'm stuck staring at the ocean at night on the last Long Island ferry back from Lisa's place. There's nothing profound in these waters. I'm tempted to throw in the book, the emails I've printed, your old letters —everything. It's as close as I can come to fixing my mistake: there was nothing in the river to begin with, so if I fill it, will there be such a thing as sunlight?)_

_я тебе кохаю, because I don't know which language is ours,  
Jonathan_

_P.S. Josh got a Hard Rock shirt and dressed up as you for Halloween. I was the only person who got the joke, but I think that was his intent. This is his way of telling me that we're cool again, and so we are. I wish you could've seen._

 

*****

_26 November 2000_

_Дорогой Jonathan,_

_Although I find this opening very rigid (finally a correct usage), I must not fall behind in my promise to test your Russian whenever possible. I find the phone far more effective for this purpose, as it seems to happen even when I don't intend it to happen, such as my swears concerning your mother. I hope that you'll forgive me for these, as I didn't think you would comprehend them. There must be someone in your Russian course who knows bad words, or perhaps it was your teacher. My English teacher was occasionally benevolent enough to provide us with bad words, such as_ fucking _and_ asshole _, only not together, which was why I find the phrase_ big fucking asshole _most revolutionary. I've also belatedly remembered my first thought regarding_ fucking unbelievable _, and I'm fortunate to report that knowing you were not actually fucking a girl by the name of Unbelievable has put my mind very much at rest. This is not to say that I was in love at first sight —forgive me, Jonathan, but I was not—but it is to say that, loving you now, the thought in retrospect would have been nothing short of infuriating. The opposite of this is the thought of fucking you for twenty-six hours, which I hope you will consider._

_Tell Josh that his costume sounds as if it must have been absolutely premium. I wear my shirt often, as it's a constant reminder of our day in Times Square. I'd never seen anything like it in my life, and each time I attempt to describe it to Iggy, the images become more vague and the lights become less bright. I think that he has realized that he'll have to find his own way to America, as Mother had a stern talk with him about age and time and being patient. I think that she has taken a page out of your book, my mother —she speaks of time as if she understands it in the same way that you understand it, whereas I'm desperately struggling to find the patience to even begin to grasp it. As a diversion, I must tell you that I've read very much about this phenomenon of Halloween in America. It happens to the British, too, only less vociferously, and there is more beer involved and also the building of huge bonfires several days later in dishonor of Guy Fawkes, about whom I have also read. I think that I would prefer candy bars to bonfires, unless of course the American phenomenon of s'mores was involved, and also possibly beer. When I return to New York (see, positive thinking), my first order of business will be to plan a premium Halloween for Josh and for us (s'mores for Josh, beer for us). Tell Lisa that she is invited if she promises to bring the vodka and her own object of carnal affection. This will be most appreciated, especially if said object is a lesbian, because I've never actually met one._

_I don't care what kind of story you tell me, Jonathan. You get paid to tell stories every day, and I am envious of this. Accounting is the best way for me to obtain a student visa and funding; you have said so yourself, and I must cling to this belief. If it would have been easier to apply for a student visa in English, then perhaps I would have done this (although a web search has brought me to understand that teaching university English requires approximately five more years of postgraduate schooling than accountancy, which I find somewhat distressing). But I will speak of happier things now and tell you a story that you will not feel so foolish. It's approaching the Christmas season in Ukraine, and although you do not celebrate it, I think that you would appreciate the following image: some people in my mother's village are making preparations for a performance, which they have every year. What they will do is dress up in animal skins with horns and strange masks and chase everyone through the streets and out to my mother's neighbor's field, and there they will pretend to fight a battle that will end with the burning of human figures made of straw. I mention this partly because it's similar to the way the English pretend to burn Guy Fawkes, and also to the way American children dress up as monsters. It would be a proper time for me to ask you if this means I'm a monster, but that would ruin my other purpose in relating this, which is to show you that stories can be a part of life as much as they can be part of a book. If you're having trouble discerning the sunlight, perhaps you should continue looking into the water._

_Love,  
Alex_

_P.S. Our language is all of them put together; you think about this too much._

 

*****

_12 December 2000_

_Dear Alex,_

_I never thought I'd say this, but I'm glad you're not here right now, because Hanukkah starts in less than two weeks and Mom is flipping the hell out. It's as if she's forgotten she's mad at me or thinks less of me or whatever her precise stance on the gender of my significant other happens to be, I don't know, because she's been phoning me up every night for about three days straight asking if I'd be able to come over to help with decorating, shopping, and the whole nine yards. So far, I've managed to beg out of it, as I have enough problems worrying about my own shopping (Christmas and Hanukkah both, as my co-workers are a completely mixed bag, and I still haven't figured out what to call Neveen's gift —a generic holiday offering for my favorite Muslim? At least nobody in the office celebrates Kwanzaa)._

_You know, I'm not sure that I've ever believed in love at first sight. I believe that it's possible to feel a connection with someone in the first instant you lay eyes on them —which did, I think, happen with us—but it's impossible to know what the_ nature _of that connection is going to be until you get to know each other. If you'd asked me even at the time you left me at the train station in Lvov for my return trip if I knew I was going to end up falling in love with you, my answer would've been no. I don't think I really had time to process exactly what you'd begun to mean to me until after I'd been back in New York for a couple of weeks and begun working on the first chapter of the book, which I sent to you as soon as I'd finished it. There's a reason I never ditched the running title of "Falling in Love," though, because that's what was happening, and I didn't know it until it was nearly too late. You caught everything I'd hidden in plain sight without even knowing it; it wasn't until your response letters to the later sections started coming that I realized what I'd done, what I was hoping —and it was fucking terrifying, if you want to know the truth. In some ways, I feel as if I have no stories left to tell you, because I've already told you the story of what our lives might've become if we hadn't finally cornered each other into admitting, in so many words, that "Falling in Love" had some kind of meaning. I was falling in love with the fiction, falling in love with the thought of the kind of love that I thought I couldn't have, falling in love with what I'd lost (and therefore what my characters stood to lose and_ would _inevitably lose, because I'd clearly failed to advance my bloodline's chain of emotional evolution). This is all starting to sound pointlessly elliptical, but you always know what I'm saying even when I don't necessarily know. However, I think the story I'm trying to tell this time around —as an extension of our discussion on hope and time—is that we broke the vicious circle or spell or whatever it is. Instead of a myth, we've written a fairytale. _

_In other news, Josh has been coming around these past couple of weeks. He doesn't do much more than play his video games or eat everything that's not too disgustingly vegetarian out of my fridge, but we do manage to spend quality time watching CNN and having monosyllabic exchanges. Lisa says that if she didn't know any better, she'd say I was turning into your average guy —and by _average guy _, I guarantee you she means the sort that has nothing better to do than sit there watching American football and drink Corrs Light. By the way, when we have this premium Halloween of yours, Corrs is not going to be on the beer list. You can drink all the Sam Adams or Magic Hat #9 you want, but I veto any and all spurious commercial brews. Did you know most mainstream American beer is illegal in Germany because it violates their purity laws? I'm sure I could take this to a really bad and not at all funny place, so I'll just leave you to contemplate the ramifications. Speaking of which, Lisa would like to know what brands of vodka we have here in the States are ones that any self-respecting Russian (or Ukrainian, I'll add, in the best interests of keeping up this letter's theme of political correctness) wouldn't touch with a ten-foot corkscrew. I'll also leave you to contemplate that particular mental image, which I think is her revenge for the lesbian remark. Which I thought was pretty funny, by the way, but we've already established what an insensitive bastard I am._

 _Re: Bonfire Night and Ukrainian holiday effigy burnings, that's a fascinating (and kind of disturbing) connection to make. I think my grandmother told me about the dressing-up-as-demons-and-running-around thing when I was really small, but it probably went in one ear and out the other, along with some accompanying preface about how weird Christians are (my first impulse is to say that they can't quite get the Middle Ages out of their collective system, no matter how hard they try, but Jews have enough trouble getting_ every _major time period known to man out of their collective system). I can promise you that if anybody decided to re-enact that particular Ukrainian folk custom in the streets of New York, they'd be the ones tossed on the bonfire. It's kind of a shame it isn't likely to happen. I should've taken you to see RENT; it hits levels of amazing otherness that I don't think this city has seen in years._

_Sadly, I've got to wrap this up, as I've promised my grandmother I'll go see her tonight. Unlike Mom, Grandma is clever. She doesn't tell you that decorating is what she wants you to do, but at least you get tea and cookies out of the deal. Hanukkah doesn't start until the 22nd, though —I don't get it. This, Christians and Jews have in common: festooning their houses in gaudy shit too many weeks in advance._

_(I take it back: I wish you were here to help, and I love you. That comment on fucking made my day.)_

_— J_

_P.S. Mom did, however, have the courtesy to inform me she's taken me off her cell phone plan. It's about time I went hunting for my own anyway; I'm going to make sure it has **1)** a SIM card that's good all over the damned globe and **2)** a kick-ass international calling plan._

 

*****

_25 December 2000_

_Dear Jonathan,_

_If you were an average American, then I would say "Merry Christmas!" to you today —but I don't need to say it. This is not only because you are Jewish, but also because Christians in Ukriane don't celebrate Christmas on this date, either. We celebrate it on 7 January, which will seem random to you, but this is because of the difference in calendars between the Roman and Orthodox church traditions. I'm sure that this is much too simple a manner in which to explain it, but to explain it to you in Russian would be pointless because I'm certain you will not have covered this in your Russian course (if it is even still running; you have not recently spoken of it). Please endeavor to abuse your new mobile as soon as possible, as I must make sure that you are still improving your linguistic proficiency. This is a phrase of which my English professor was very very fond._

_I must confess that my mother would be very confused by the practices of your mother and grandmother, as she does not, as you say, festoon the house too many weeks in advance. She will wait until the New Year's festivities and vodka hang-overs are gone to go out and select some fir branches and ribbons, which may go over the kitchen doorway if Andriy does not think it's too severe. I myself don't care so much for what the house looks like at Christmas, because it's more about the many premium varieties of food that Mother will create for us to consume once the second round of vodka hang-overs are complete. I haven't had a vodka hang-over in a very long time, however, I'm sure you will be pleased to hear. If you have lived with the man who was my father for any noteworthy duration, then you will find that vodka is not as attractive as it once might have appeared to be. I believe that Andriy will draw the line at placing pieces of hay on the table, as he is, I think this is the word, a very fastidious person who would rather not think of a barn while he is eating. You must think I'm joking about this, but I swear to you I'm being truthful (and faithful, but I know the difference between these two things now). The dinner is called Sviata Vechera, and my grandmother would put hay on the tablecloth that she had made with her own hands when she was very young. I'm hoping that this year the singers of kolyadky —carols?—will not be so vociferous as those we had in our neighborhood of Odessa. Do Jewish people have songs for Hanukkah? Will I find it necessary to learn them?_

_Speaking on the subject of gifts and shopping, I'm now completely mortified as to what I should call your gift, and also to discover that gifts are often given on each of the eight days during which Hanukkah occurs! I regret to inform you that I cannot afford to send you eight gifts, but I'll endeavor to obtain one large gift, or possibly two mediocre ones, to send you very soon. According to my calculations, this is the fourth day of Hanukkah, which means that if I travel to Odessa tomorrow on the early bus and complete my shopping, I will be able to patronize the postal office and send your gift(s) barely in the nick of time. They will of course not reach you until after Hanukkah is over, but I'll at least be satisfied to know that I sent them with three days remaining. I know that it would be in your nature to send me a gift without discussing it, so I promise you that I will pretend to be shocked when it arrives. As for Lisa, I'm not very sure to what religion she belongs, so I think that I'm in the same boat with you over your friend Neveen. In spite of this, tell Lisa that I wish her a premium winter holiday of her own selection! Tell her additionally that I'm not so picky about vodka, as I don't drink as much of it as I professed in New York, but that Andriy says anything with a label written in English is certain to be fallible. These are my words in order to make his statement more eloquent; what he actually said is that it is certain to be shit._

_I have the dim feeling that Iggy is feeling somewhat neglected, so I have promised just at this moment to take him with me to Odessa tomorrow. We will shop together, as accompaniment makes any ~~rigid~~ difficult task more pleasurable. This is what my grandmother used to say, while we are on the subject of clever grandmothers. When I return, I must bring you some Russian tea, which I happen to like but do not admit to, or I could possibly send some as long as I'm not truthful on the customs form._

_I wish I were with you, too, my Safran, but the white line of candles in my window is growing night by night, and I imagine that the flickerings in the glass are yours reflected back._

_Holiday wishes to all of your family,  
Alex_

 

*****

**7 January 2001, 10:01 AM / 5:01 PM**

_Ring. Ring ring. Ring. Ring ring. Ring —_

" _Allo, Dmitry!_ What's uuuup, man?"

"...right. Is...this...Iggy?"

" _Da_ , this is Igor Perchov at your service. One minute. _Alli! Poslushay ty, mudack!_ Telephone!"

"Um. Thanks."

"...am going to kick your ass. Have you learned that yet? Yes? Then your ass is very kicked. Hello, Jonathan. I'm terribly sorry you had to hear this, as it's not usual for him to say such things, and it's not usual for me to say such things to him. Merry Christmas from Ukraine!"

"Was I hearing things, or did he call you something like...God, I forget, is it 'dumb-ass' or 'motherfucker'?"

"That would be correct."

"Er...which?"

"Both, depending on how unkind you feel. Do you hear this in the background? Mother is yelling at him."

"Yeah. I definitely hear it. I wouldn't have guessed your mom had it in her."

"My mother is full of many surprising things, some of which we will begin to eat very soon. I take it this means that you have found a premium mobile service?"

"It's not bad, but it won't be the same as mooching off Mom."

"Mooching. I discern that this means something like taking a free ride?"

"Yep, pretty much the same. Listen, your letter and the gift package both arrived yesterday. I wanted to call and let you know, and ask if you really and honestly bothered to track down a menorah somewhere and put it in your window."

"Not precisely. It was a row of candles in separate glass holders. Did you find your gifts satisfactory? I've written in a letter, which I had intended to send this week, that you shouldn't have sent such a remarkable thing in the post. Someone might have stolen it."

"Well, it was worth a shot. I noticed you never wear a watch, and I thought—"

"It's brilliant, Jonathan. I will very much enjoy knowing exactly what time it is in New York. Also, Iggy is jealous that my watch has two faces and his merely has a little square with numbers, which is why he called me a...dumb-ass, I think, is more proper at this moment. Mother is giving me a suspect glance."

"Uh-oh. Does Iggy look proud of himself?"

"Affirmative. He has probably told her I threatened to kick his ass."

"Do you know, this is probably the most bizarre phone conversation I've ever had? I just thought you should know. Anyway, yes: I've been listening to the CD pretty much nonstop, and the book of poetry helps, as I can at least read Cyrillic now even if I don't understand all the words."

"Chubai is a premium Ukrainian poet, and it is his son who has put his words into songs."

"Oh, to answer your question—yeah, Jewish people have loads of Hanukkah songs. I don't recommend learning them, as they usually sung off-key and incredibly loud."

"Much like _kolyadky_."

"And there's really bad dancing, too."

"Dancing like in a club?"

"No, dancing like at a wedding, only with even _more_ alcohol."

"Then I'm thinking that Jewish weddings and Ukrainian weddings are much the same."

"Actually, that wouldn't surprise me. You probably wouldn't be able to tell a Ukrainian Jewish wedding from a normal Ukrainian wedding, would you?"

"I doubt this. Would you be able to tell an American Jewish wedding from a normal American wedding?"

"Definitely. Again, Jewish weddings have more alcohol."

"Vodka?"

"If they're of Russian or Ukrainian descent, I don't see why not."

"I think Lisa is underestimating your genetic possibilities for inebriation."

"Believe me, I'm not eager to prove her wrong."

"Neither am I, as it seems to me you're not accustomed to vodka in large quantities."

"You haven't done much to endear the prospect to me, no."

"Perhaps we will have a few shots at our premium Halloween, just to appease her."

"Sounds like a plan. Although I'm probably dead if I mix it with beer."

"This is not good, Jonathan."

"No, I mean—I'm probably screwed. You know, vomiting into the toilet all night."

" _Ah_. That is a different matter, at least, and very probable."

"Gee, thanks for your vote of confidence."

"On the contrary, I'm very confident this will happen."

"Your propensity for absolute zingers never ceases to amaze me."

"Zingers?"

"Clever comebacks. You know more than you let on when it comes to using sarcasm."

"The use of sarcasm is basically the same no matter what language you speak."

"So is the use of 'motherfucker', apparently. In France, they take the insult back a generation. _Je baise ta mémé_ \- I fuck your grandmother."

"I must inform you that this is also the strangest telephone conversation _I've_ ever had."

"It's the kind of conversation I wish I was having on Mom's tab, just to spite her."

"Let it be more satisfying that it's on your own. As for me, I'm not so satisfied, as I think that Mother will yell at me as soon as we are finished speaking."

"Uh-oh. Best not to delay the inevitable? I think my power's running low. I'll stay on the line till it cuts out, though, if you want."

"That won't be necessary. You know what I would say to you if I didn't think Iggy would understand it."

"Yes, I do. You too. Merry Christmas. Happy Hanukkah. Lisa sends her love."

"I send mine, of the platonic variety. Goodbye for now, Jonathan."

"You too, Alex."

 _Click_.

 

*****

9 January 2001

 

Dear Alex,

I'm typing this at work in order to kill time, because we're having a really slow day. Lisa's idea of fun is organizing a game of hockey using trash bins, maintenance brooms, and a bouncy-ball unearthed from the back of her desk drawer. I'm opting to stay out of harm's way myself, though I'm sure the noise means they're having a load of fun. From the sound of things, Neveen is currently wiping the floor with Daniel. White men can't play games that are probably office safety code infractions, either. If you don't know that joke, I'm sure Iggy does. That kid is really, really scary, and I might just ask you to keep him away from Josh. Then again, it could be too late; they've probably found each other on ICQ and started trading porn links.

This letter doesn't have much point except to say that I hope you haven't trashed the letter you started writing before I called you, and that it was a relief to hear your voice again after a couple of months. I wanted to say a lot more, but circumstances wouldn't really permit. If you think about it, we're even more of a fairytale than I first suspected: doomed to play out our romance in paper and ink! It would make an excellent premise for a trashy romance novel, come to think of it. I'm sure you have those in Ukraine. Every country has them. A friend of mine from high school used to collect romance novels and porn magazines from other countries, and she had, I swear, something like a whole bookshelf's worth. That's a hell of a lot of smut. She had some magazines from Hungary, and the livestock-to-humans ratio was truly astonishing. Please don't tell me Ukrainian porn is like this. I'll be scarred for life. - -

HEY, LISA SPEAKING. I'VE TOLD NERDBOY HERE THAT HE'S NOT TO CHANGE A LETTER OF THIS BEFORE PRINTING IT OFF BECAUSE I HAVE AS MUCH RIGHT TO SAY HELLO TO AN OLD FRIEND AS HE DOES, GOD DAMN IT. THE CAPSLOCK IS A BIT OF AN EYESORE, BUT IN A WAY IT'S LIKE A TELEGRAM AND I FIND THAT SORT OF OLD FASHIONED AND CHARMING. YOU'LL PROBABLY FIND IT STUPID, BUT IT'S A RISK I'M WILLING TO TAKE! HA! JONATHAN'S TURNING ABOUT TEN SHADES OF PURPLE, WANT ME TO SNAP A PIC? WE HAVE LOADS OF CAMERAS SITTING AROUND; JUST SAY THE WORD! ANYWAY, YOUR HALLOWEEN IDEA IS SPIFFY, AND I FORGIVE YOU FOR THE INSENSITIVE REMARK ABOUT LESBIANS. I'M NOT A LESBIAN, YOU KNOW, I JUST LIKE PRETTY PEOPLE.

(IF I FIND MYSELF A HOT LESBIAN, THOUGH, YOU'LL BE THE FIRST TO KNOW! KISSES!)

Oh my fucking God, I think I need to find a new job. If you decide you want to send her a letter bomb, I completely understand. Want her address? I can give it to you. Just say the word. She's been badgering me for your address for a while now, but I've been telling her I don't feel comfortable giving it out because it's your mother's and Andriy's address as much as it is yours. So far, that seems to be working. Lisa's a dipstick, but she respects a person's right to privacy. Speaking of which, I have absolutely _none_ right now, because Lisa's telling everybody else that I'm writing you fucking _shit_ I'm just going to print this and stuff it in an envelope, to hell with nosy fucks, I love you and I'm doing all kinds of rain-dances adapted to the purpose of bringing down a storm of acceptance letters, etc.

Yours,  
J

 

*****

_21 January 2001_

_Dear Jonathan,_

_I must ask your forgiveness in the delay of this reply, as many things have occurred since we spoke on the phone and even since I received your new letter several days ago. Unfortunately, I did trash the letter I had begun to write about the gift that you sent, as it was exceedingly incomplete. To catch you up with current events, I will begin with what occurred after our phone conversation. Mother yelled at me for telling Iggy I would kick his ass, and she told me that I'm not to call you in America, because it is too expensive. I told her that it is you who does the calling, not me, and she said that it seemed like a burden on you and also that we have become —I believe this is the English—too close for comfort. I explained that perhaps too close for her comfort is actually quite comfortable for me, which earned me a slap on the face, and this is not something that I have had since Father left us. I'm conflicted on this matter, but so is Mother, and she has not spoken of it again. I believe that my difficulties have begun, Jonathan, and that I will be needing your determination more fiercely than ever. Iggy is not speaking to me again._

_Your letter was most welcome, but I hesitate to say that Lisa's interlude was possibly the best thing about it, as I laughed forcefully for the first time in many days. I would not mind having her address, which I will not use for bombing purposes. I'll use it to send her Ukrainian porn in which there is a shockingly high ratio of livestock to humans, and she will be scarred for life instead of you. I have not yet found a magazine to fit these specifications, but if they exist in Hungary, I'm certain they must exist here. If I don't find them in Odessa next week, I'll check under Iggy's mattress, and that will be my revenge._

_We've come very far, Jonathan, in a very short period of time. Your family has come to terms with me, even if they are somewhat in denial, and I must thank them for that. However, my family may be more slow to come to terms with you, and it is because of this that I must beg your patience in the months to come. I must ask you not to call until I tell you a specific day in my next letter on which I know I will not be working. I would tell you a specific day in this letter, but I'm currently busy in the café even on weekends now that the holidays are past, and I must find out when I can request a day off on which nobody else will be home. Our conversation on Christmas reminded me of how much privacy has grown important to us, and I feel that between the holiday rush and my family's intervention we did ourselves a disservice. Again, you must not take this in the wrong way; rather, you must take it as another precaution that I have thought about very carefully. It would be wiser to dial my mobile from now on, although I'm not always able to answer it when I'm at work. If you're wondering why I've spoken very little of work, I'll tell you. I hate it, and my descriptions would make you worry._

_It has been a New Year's resolution of sorts, hasn't it, this telling-of-stories? Whether you know it or not, you have told me many, and each of them has been as luminous as water, or candles, or a reflection from many thousands of miles away. To answer your question, Jonathan, I believe that sunlight exists so long as we gather the flames with care, one by one, and use them to drive off the dark._

_Love,  
Alex_


	9. Closed Cases

_18 March 2001_

_Dear Alex,_

_It would be an understatement, I think, to say that today's date keeps popping up for us in the grand scheme of things both past and present. I'm not sure why, but it just occurred to me. With regards to your last letter, I can understand your frustration with the universities. I would've thought you'd have heard something by now, too, but you've got to remember that admissions offices suck no matter what country you're in, and waiting for your letter to arrive via airmail probably sucks even worse. Give it another week or so; after that, I'd suggest you start bugging them via email if at all possible, because that's probably the quickest (and cheapest) method of finding out what's up. I know you haven't get to Odessa as often as you'd like to recently, but perhaps it would be worth taking a day off of work for the good of your future? If something's gone wrong (only if), now's the time we'd want to begin making contingency plans. I hope you don't think I'm being pessimistic, but if I've got to do something drastic, I might as well brace myself for it._

_Lisa showed up on my doorstep a couple of days ago after work; I'm not sure how she followed me home without my knowledge. I was probably too wrapped up in my thoughts to care. Anyway, she had a bottle-shaped paper bag under one arm and a grin the size of Texas, and I thought, oh, God, what's up her sleeve this time? She said the vodka would help me relax, and that it'd be a good idea for me to practice. I'm sure I don't have to tell you that four shots in five minutes is a bad idea, or at least it was a bad idea for me. I think Lisa was kind of shocked that her services were required till 3 AM. It's not like I made her stay, but for a while there I wondered if I was going to stay conscious, and the vomiting wasn't pleasant. She said that this is why a vegetarian diet is stupid, never enough in my stomach at any given time, why can't I just be a_ normal _drinking buddy? To which I replied, "Fuck off," only my face was squashed into the sofa cushion and she had no idea what I was trying to communicate. My point is, I don't think drinking is the solution here, and so I wait._

 _It's so cold. I can't step outside without getting sucked into a wind-tunnel, and I keep remembering how mild the weather was in Odessa when I visited last year. It's enough to make me want to go to Florida or something, and I don't especially like Florida. How about California? I bet you'd like to see Hollywood. I've never seen it, actually, as relatively well traveled as my family is, so I'm feeling a bit cheated at the moment. Mexico would be nice. I've always wanted to see the Maya ruins. It's only when you get to thinking about the things you_ have _done that you realize you haven't really done all that much. My dad's seen more of the country than I have. What I'd really like to do one of these days is rent a car, or maybe buy one, and just start driving south. Or west, or southwest, or any other direction but north, because I've seen too much of New England in every fucking season there is. I'd take you to Boston, though, and Portland, Maine, because those are cities worth seeing. I'd take you on my road trip. I will take you._

 _In other news, Josh would like to know if Iggy wants an American pen-pal. I'm four-square against it, as the last thing I need to worry about is Josh letting slip to Iggy our relationship status, but I have to wonder if I really have any say in the matter. I told him I'd mention it to you in my next letter, and that seems to have appeased him for the moment. God, the things I do to buy time. Do you have any thoughts on the matter? Maybe I'll poke the universities for you. They'd understand an overseas liaison, I'm sure, in the case of somebody in your situation. If you don't want me to, just say so. I'm going quietly insane, and I'm trying not to let you see that, but as I read back over this letter_ I _can see it, so there's no use. There are days when I miss you so much it's like having one of those junior high crushes that makes your chest actually hurt. Completely infuriating. Why can't I have your patience?_

_Love,  
Jonathan_

 

*****

March 17, 2001

 

Dear Alexander,

We are writing [ . . . ]

 

*****

**27 March 2000, 11:37 AM / 4:37 AM**

_Ring_. _Ring_. _Ring_. _Ri —_

" _Ugh_. Hello?"

"Jonathan, I must hope you are sitting down."

"What? Who is—fucking _hell_ , Alex, oh my God. What happened?"

"It would appear that your government does not find me premium enough for a scholarship."

"Don't you dare make a joke out of this. It hurts to hear you try. Alex? I—"

"—tried very hard for this, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I have gone to a pay phone to—"

"Do you have any privacy? Is it a phone box? Oh, God. _Alex_."

"Please, please forgive me. Please. Jonfen, I wish I could have—"

"No, don't apologize, either. Mother _fucking_ morons. Okay. We don't know what the schools are going to offer you, okay? They could offer you something. A lot of New York schools are disgustingly rich."

"Are the ones I have applied to in this category?"

"Most of them. A couple of them. Yes. Alex, _yes_. This isn't worth our tears, okay?"

" . . . "

"Okay? _Alex_?"

"I'm here. I'm trying to pull this together, are you clear?"

"Yes. Yes, I'm clear on that. I know you are. I love you. Just breathe."

"I'm finding this supremely difficult, and it seems as if you are as well."

" _Dammit_ , Alex. Are you trying to make me choke?"

"Is humor not the best way to cope with tragedy? Did you not say this?"

"I don't know what I said. I say a lot of fucking stupid things."

"There's sometimes truth in your stupidity, _ponimaesh_?"

"Yes. Um. _Ponimayu_. I'm losing all my Russian."

"Your Russian is hiding from the pain, I think. Tell it that it can only help."

"I will. I'll try."

"This calling card will run out very shortly, Jonathan. How should I inform you of further developments?"

"Email, if you can. Letter. Any way you can. Should I call you once a week?"

"I would like this, but it is unlikely to be convenient. I had written you a letter to send, but—"

"Send it anyway, and send me another one on top of it. I don't care. Stop throwing letters out just because we talk on the phone before you manage to send them. Your letters mean a lot to me, even redundant ones."

"I suppose I feel this way also. Jonathan, I wished to say, I miss - "

 _Click_.

 

*****

_~~25 March 2001~~ 30 March 2001_

_Dear Jonathan,_

_I had noticed this about 18 March quite some time ago, but I had decided it was coincidence and therefore of no special meaning. However, the fact that you take it seriously will cause me to reconsider the matter. Waiting has not been so simple, but my family has in some ways made the time pass more quickly. I am beginning to think that Iggy's indecisive nature is simply a result of his age, and that I should not take his fits of hatred so seriously. For instance, we had a conversation of very few words about a news report not unlike the story about you and Josh, and I've come to the conclusion that even such a thing as this is progress. At work, time moves too slowly, and I'm tired of serving coffee and sausages to tourists who are not you. This is not to say you were an average tourist on your first visit to Ukraine, as most tourists do not come looking for family secrets, but I have learned in the process of working for this café exactly the manner of tourists who_ do _have shit for brains. They are mostly non-Jewish Americans and British people._

_Tell Lisa that if she decides to do something like this again, I will have to stop answering her letters. The worst time to partake of vodka is when you are in distress, although I somehow think Americans do not understand this (and neither do many Ukrainians, to be very fair). Did she give you copious water to drink? This is my best suggestion for too much vodka, as Mother used to make my father drink it when he was in terrible ways because he over-drank more than usual. I would suggest that if you are going to do this again, you should take only three shots, or perhaps two, and put a large space between them. This will keep your mind from shutting itself down, because I remember sharply my first drinks of vodka taken one after the other. I did not remain conscious, so it was fortunate I was sitting down._

_This road-trip idea is a premium one, as I cannot think of another efficient way of seeing a country so large without missing large gaps in between destinations. I perceive that traveling by air has this disadvantage. I have known friends of mine to take a car and drive as far as they can into Russia, which is foolish, because if you think the abandoned roadways of Ukraine are isolated from civilization, you would be exceedingly astonished at the abandoned roadways of Russia. I have not seen them personally, but I have been told on numerous occasions that this road trip was worse than a shit-for-brains idea. However, America's roadways are rarely abandoned, and there are more petrol stations there than I have ever seen in Ukraine. I would like to see Hollywood, but I would like to see the Pacific Ocean most of all, as I have heard it's so deeply blue as to be without compare. The only oceans I have seen are grey._

_What a novel expression, to be four-square against! I must tell you that I'm also four-square against this motion, but I have neglected to say that Iggy has mentioned perhaps once or twice that he thinks Josh would be a suitable pen-pal, as he is the little brother of someone I know and therefore not likely to be a serial killer or other bizarre individual. I have told him (forgive me, forgive me) that it is possible Josh would like a Ukrainian pen-pal, and that he would perhaps be suitable for the position seeing as he has begun writing English with phenomenal fluidity. Fluency? Is this word just as applicable with written language?_

_You should not covet my patience, as it is not truly so patient. I try hard, my Safran, but missing you is like this for me, too. The words I would use to describe this sensation, you would not comprehend._

_Love,  
Alex_

_P.S. I am adding this contemporaneous with the altered date: Baruch and Bramson Colleges have decided to accept me, but neither of them is suggesting more than a partial scholarship for me, which is exciting, but troubling, as Mother and Andriy say borrowing money is a difficult thing to do, especially when the exchange rate will be very bad and cause me to borrow more than the usual amount. Hunter, Pace, and Queens are deciding to reject me, so I must assume they have shit for brains (in order to remain sane). I have not heard from New York University. I dread this most of all, Jonathan, because I would like to study with them most of all based upon descriptions Lisa has given me. Should I begin considering Baruch and Bramson most strongly? I'm intensely lost._

 

*****

March 29, 2001

 

Dear Alexander,

We are pleased to inform you [ . . . ]

 

*****

**1 April 2001, 1:49 PM / 6:49 AM**

_Ring_. _Ri —_

"Fuck you, Lisa. As gags go, don't you think this is getting a bit old?"

"I wish it was Lisa you were speaking with, because I feel she needs to hear it."

" _Fuck_. Alex, hey. This isn't an April Fool's joke, is it?"

"As far as I'm aware, it is not. At least I'm hoping this."

"You want to give me a hand here?"

"I'm hoping this letter is not an April Fool's joke, Jonathan. Do universities and businesses in America play April Fool's jokes? If they do, I must inform you that it's a cruel and unusual one."

"Oh my God."

"You are catching my drift, yes?"

"Oh my _God_."

"You should not scream; your neighbors are asleep."

"You smug bastard. How can you _keep_ from shouting? Tell me everything!"

"New York University is as premium as Lisa claims. It is looking as if my worst expenses will merely be airplane travel and moving my things in the post."

"This isn't a joke on _your_ part, is it?"

"Would I be this glad, Jonathan, if it was?"

"No. Somehow, I don't think you would. This is unbelievable."

"Why are you finding it so hard to believe?"

"Because NYU sometimes has a stick up its collective ass, that's why. I'm glad to see they took it out just long enough to write up your acceptance offer. By the way, they _are_ disgustingly rich, which is why they can afford to give you money."

"I must sit down with all of these letters and send back replies of rejection to the ones I'm not choosing. It'll be..."

"Cathartic. Or revenge, if you'd rather look at it that way."

"I'll regard it as cathartic revenge."

"Just make sure you send back the form saying _yes_ to NYU."

"Yes, also somehow with money, as I have noticed they ask for a housing deposit."

"You don't have to do that. You're not going to be living on campus."

" _Ah_. Yes, except Mother does not know this."

"Then don't tell her they're asking for a housing deposit at all, for crying out loud!"

"Okay. This should not be so difficult. Forgive me, I was not thinking with the excitement."

"I don't blame you. I don't think I'm thinking, either. I'm kind of just gushing."

"Yes, Jonathan. It's premium entertainment."

"Not as premium as jerking Lisa's chain at work tomorrow is going to be."

"I catch your gist. You will tell her I didn't get anything?"

"Nah, I'll make it a lot wilder than that. Hey, and this is fantastic; there are still the other schools—wait, you said the ones you're _not_ accepting, oh my God, you got _all_ the other letters, too?"

"You have not gotten my letter?"

"Haha, _fuck_. No. Obviously I haven't. How did the other letters pan out?"

"I think I should make you wait to read this in my letter, since you insisted that I send it."

"Fair enough. It'll be something to look forward to. I'm guessing you got at least a few rejections, too?"

"I will not say anything on this matter. It will be good for your patience."

"Fine. Hey, are you on a calling card again?"

"Yes, and I fear it is also running low."

"I'm going to say a proper goodbye, then, before it cuts us off. _Ty mnye ochen nuzhen, ja tak po tyebye skuchal_."

"I have not heard you say this since...we had privacy."

"It's all I remember, because I made myself go over and over it so I wouldn't forget."

"It's like this for me, too, my Safran. More than before, since this has become possible."

"I know it'll still be hard. We'll get through it."

"We will—"

 _Click_.

 

*****

_April 2, 2001_

_Dear Alex,_

_Holy fuck, you lucky bastard! Congrats! NYU didn't want my ass, let me tell you that, but I still liked the place and had plenty of friends who went there. Besides, I think Fordham was good for me in some weird way in the end. It all works out, you'll see. I know there's some tough shit still hanging fire, but if I know anything, it's that Jonathan's going to get you through this even if it kills him. I haven't been so frank in past letters, but frankly, I get so sick with jealousy sometimes that I can't stand to be writing to you, as much as I like you and consider you a friend (which I really, really do; Jonathan doesn't let in many people, but when he does, they're quality). You've come up against so many odds in the past couple of years that I don't think I could count them from memory, let alone on one hand, but I remember Jonathan sitting me down and telling me everything from start to finish, I mean everything, and thinking, oh, Jesus Christ, this is the kind of thing that happens to other people, and since when do I know those other people? Like, "Romeo and Juliet" only not quite like that; better an ocean than feuding families, but would your families be fighting if they knew each other? And I guess they were in the past, weren't they, all the while being just as in love as you and Jonathan are now? That's what I can't wrap my mind around, what I can't stand. It's like a fairytale, isn't it? I shouldn't blame you for that. Nobody who ever woke up in a fairytale actually meant to be there. It just_ was _. In the end, I see the way things have gone for you guys and realize it's not actually the end, it's only just starting. See, this is why I'm not a writer and Jonathan is: I use every cliché in the book, and very liberally. That magazine would be nowhere without my mad graphic design skills, though, so your assessment of_ shiny _all those months ago was actually a direct compliment to me, as I'd done that particular issue's cover. We have a whole team of graphics design people, and when I say a whole team, I mean basically myself, Daniel, and Neveen. It's really cool that I can mention these people and you'll know who I'm talking about. Anyhoo, I have a deadline and my lunch break's almost over. I'll give this to Jonathan, seeing as he's been typing a letter to you all afternoon instead of working on his column._

_Kisses,  
Lisa_

 

2 April 2001

 

Dear Alex,

I'm currently of the opinion that good things should happen more often, because, seriously, it doesn't get any better than this. I'm happy, and my co-workers are happy to see me happy, and the whole office just kind of has this feeling of well-being about it. I love New York. I love everything. Lisa's kind of got a bug up her butt about the whole "Alex didn't get any offers; will you help me pay his tuition?" joke, because she took it pretty seriously before she finally realized it was a belated April Fool's gag. Last year, she rang me up early on the 1st and told me some crackpot story about a bombing at the Empire State building. I mean, she even _sounded_ hysterical, and it was so early in the morning that it took me a lot longer than it should have to realize what day it was and what the hell she was on about. It was mean, but it was a damned convincing joke, and now you know why I thought your phonecall was actually Lisa trying to yank my chain again. Maybe she didn't do anything on Saturday because she figured she'd give me a break. I guess she does have a heart, doesn't she?

I hate to go all businesslike on you, but the next most important thing (after sending the form back to NYU) is sending me photocopies of everything they sent you so I can look it over and see if there are any snags. You seem pretty confident, though, so I haven't been worrying as much as I might have been otherwise about not prodding you for all the details before the phone card ran out. It may be that the deposit isn't just for housing, and that you may have to pay it anyway—in which case, I'm volunteering to pay it for you, because I know it'd be a pain for you to route funds around or bother with an international postal order for such a huge amount of Ukrainian currency just to make up the U.S. amount (what is it, two or three hundred dollars, something like that? I think it's what I owed my school, anyway). There are a lot of other things to think about, like getting you here with enough time to spare before the semester starts so that we can get your stuff settled into my place, etc. Oh, also, the matter of your student visa: you're definitely going to have to make a trip to Odessa and use a computer to print off the required forms from the U.S. Consulate website. You'll be mailing the form(s) and your passport to New York, probably, which is kind of ironic. Again, there's going to be a stupid fee attached to that, and I'll even volunteer to pay that, too, if I can manage to squeeze it in after your deposit. I know you're going to protest, but I swear, it's the least I can do.

Anyway, write me when you have the photocopies and the forms printed and everything like that. I know it's early in the year yet, so we do have a while, but it's better to get these things squared away early, _especially_ visa matters. I don't mean to seem like I'm lecturing you; I know you realize these things. It's just my control freak kicking in. I think that's what Lisa was hoping to kill when she gave me the vodka, but it obviously didn't work.

I love you. I haven't said it enough. я тебе кохаю, я тебя люблю, _je t'aime_. There, I think I've hit every language I've ever studied, with the possible exception of Yiddish, which I haven't actually studied, but if I think hard enough, it's something like _Ich han dich lib_ , which is disturbingly similar to German. The translation would be _I have love for you_ , which isn't as direct, but is equally true. I do.

Yours,  
Jonathan

P.S. Lisa handed me a letter for you a few minutes ago—taped shut—so I'll be sending it along with this. I guess it's for your eyes only. She's probably telling you a lot of scandalous things about NYU that she doesn't want me to know.

 

*****

**To:** trachimbrodtales@yahoo.com  
 **From:** odessawithlove@hotmail.com  
 **Date:** 10-Apr-2001 13:59  
 **Subject:** Tell Lisa that her letter will be sent by standard post.

 

Dear Jonathan,

I have held onto your letter for a few days in order to reply to it online now that I am in Odessa for the day. I believe that the expression for this situation, of which Iggy is very fond, would be "Chill out!" You are far too worried about these things; I'm keeping track of exactly what papers need to be going where at which times, and I have also printed out the requisite forms from the U.S. Consulate. There is a person at my university who is designed to help with these things, and I have spoken with her this morning and gotten copious useful advice. Sadly, I think that it would be most convenient if I sent my acceptance form to you and had you add to it the deposit, as I would not be able to get funds sorted in time for when they require to receive the paperwork. I will mail it to you via whichever expedited global service I find that I can most easily afford. Fortunately, I've been working very much and this has literally paid off.

To answer a useful question, however, NYU's term begins 3 September, which is a Monday. I am assuming, then, that it would be best for me to move sometime in August, although what time of the month will be best, I do not know. It will depend on flight prices, as I refuse to let you pay for this. I must get myself there, do you agree? It will teach me a lesson in the value of this, not unlike the lesson I wished to teach your patience. I will keep this brief, as I must go to the post office and mail you these papers before it is closed. From my perspective, you say _I love you_ exactly as much as you should, and by this I mean you say it when no other utterance could possibly be fitting. And this moment is fitting, so I will say that I have love for you beyond the love that I have for all other things.

Yours in hope and time and everything in between,  
Alex


	10. How It Ends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The driver of Lisa's cab is [**Salim**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1021282?page=1) (following on the heels of the Ifrit's uncredited cameo in Chapter 6).

**To:** odessawithlove@hotmail.com  
 **From:** trachimbrodtales@yahoo.com  
 **Date:** 29-Jun-2001 22:10  
 **Subject:** Re: I'm glad Sammy's given up eating travel documents.

 

Dear Alex,

I'm pleased that you've been getting to your email on the weekends, as I think, at this advanced stage, letters are becoming impractical. As you've observed, if there should be any emergency, we need quick correspondence. I know the bus to Odessa is a pain in the ass, but I really appreciate this. I'm going to miss your handwriting, though; for a while there, I'm not sure how I let myself believe that email was a fitting substitute. I guess both modes of communication have their advantages and disadvantages. Online, I hear from you once a week instead of once or twice a month. Letters, though, I can keep those all in a bundle and read them over and over, and there's no danger of accidentally deleting them. I've used up more than my quota of paper at work in the past year, so I had better watch it with the email-printing. I can't really help it that some of your most amazing letters don't arrive the old-fashioned way.

I've been thinking about this whole concept of epistolary romance—romance via letters, in case you're not familair with the terminology—and I've come to the conclusion that there's a good reason it's such a frequent format for novels. It's both the most direct form of emotional impact you can possibly have on your readers (i.e. making them feel as if they're party to something forbidden, private) and the biggest cop-out imaginable. Letters need little to no framework; they're champions at standing alone on the page. The sum total of the letters and emails we've written over time is a novel in and of itself, or maybe several novels. True ones, I'll grant, but nobody wants to believe that things like this are true. Even for me, a participant in the plot, the pain is at times unbearable. I can't wait for you to be here, for this tenuous string of words and promises to be over, to be kept. It's not that I don't realize they've been all that keeps us alive on some days, because I'm _keenly_ aware of that. It's just that I'm tired of waiting, and that this almost didn't happen. I can't even conceive of it not happening. I can't believe the flame was almost snuffed out before I had the chance to see you again face to face. Do you think your grandfather is watching? Do you believe in Heaven? Hell? An afterlife of any kind? I meant to ask you these questions a long time ago, but life kept getting in the way. Irony's never lost on us.

I've been making inquiries on your behalf at NYU. I know you're concerned about registering for classes, but it seems like that's going to be okay—as long as you get here far enough in advance, i.e. a couple of weeks, which you are, you should be able to do it online here at the apartment. It looks like there are some orientation activities, which are inevitable at U.S. institutions...ones for graduate students, ones for international students, ones for new students in general...my advice would be to skip them; all they ever did was put me to sleep. Don't skip anything hosted by your department, however, as that kind of thing is really important (information, departmental guideline booklets, etc.) Sorry, all my recent messages tend to degenerate into procedural lectures. I just don't want the university system here to catch you off guard. Lisa mentioned earlier today that she's been giving you the insider's view on campus night-life (I shudder to think).

It'll be so good to sleep in tomorrow. I feel like I've been doing nothing but write bad columns and even worse fiction. Still, I'm content that my heart's going somewhere, if only to you. You're the only one who wants to read it.

Love,  
Jonathan

P.S. Have you booked your flight?

 

*****

**To:** trachimbrodtales@yahoo.com  
 **From:** odessawithlove@hotmail.com  
 **Date:** 7-Jul-2001 14:22  
 **Subject:** Once again, I'll impose a new subject.

 

Dear Jonathan,

First and foremost, I should note that you continue to be more hard on yourself than any person I've ever known. How incorrect you are! If people didn't want to read your writing, they would not buy your magazine—but Lisa has stressed to me that her connections in the marketing department would suggest otherwise. She informs me that you receive letters regarding your work, which your readers consider intensely premium. You've done exceedingly well in being truthful to me about your feelings and what you are thinking, but I suspect you haven't been truthful about your writing elsewhere. I'm very proud to know that others enjoy your words, so why should you feel impelled to hide this from me? Enough of yelling at you; I'll now be lenient and give you the benefit of doubt. You are modest, Jonathan, and displaying modesty to your better half (this comes from Lisa) is a considerable courtesy. I could love you all the more for it.

Epistolary romance is not a foreign concept to me, as I've encountered it a little in my English studies. Over time, I found myself in great consternation to be in the middle of such a story, and when a story becomes very involved, you can't help wondering about how it will end. It becomes even more difficult when you are a protagonist, especially one of the heroes. I used to think of you as the hero of this tale, Jonathan, but you have generously permitted me to think of myself as a hero as well. However, there are days when I suspect I'm only the hero's lover: unable to make change of my own accord unless the hero approves of it. You have also permitted me to make change occur, so I'm often aware that this sensation is foolish. We would not be at this point in the plot if we had not worked together to make changes, and I understand with trepidation that the changes are not finished. I feel a sense of something beyond the door, in the dark, waiting. I believe that this unnamed thing may be Heaven, or Hell, or whatever is beyond the reach of life. To be truthful, Jonathan, I don't know what I believe in beyond believing that you were not merely a dream, and for this I'm very grateful.

To speak of less heavy things, Lisa's tips regarding night life are very dull and predictable. I suspect that I will find better night life at home with you, and that she knows this. Don't worry about your heart; I keep it safe in a small jar, which I do not bury, but carry with me.

Love,  
Alex

P.S. No, but I was planning on it after I finish this message. It will be the flight on Saturday, 18 August that I spoke of on the phone a few weeks ago. Mother is helping a little with this, which surprises me, because she moves in and out of fits of liking you and seeming to hate you for taking away her son. In the end, she must believe this is best for me, or maybe for both of us.

P.P.S. I must consider the shipping of my non-packable belongings. They occupy three boxes, which I was stunned to discover, and will not be cheap. Will you have room for them if they appear before I do?

 

*****

**To:** odessawithlove@hotmail.com  
 **From:** trachimbrodtales@yahoo.com  
 **Date:** 8-Jul-2001 11:17  
 **Subject:** Did you mean propose? Never mind; it was imposition anyway.

 

Dear Alex,

What you said about your mother really gives me pause. Is that how she feels, that I'm taking you away? I guess it's better that you're being honest about it. I feel incredibly guilty, and I wish there was something I could do to change the way she feels about it. I know that the relationship aspect will open a new can of worms if/when she finds out about it, but I suppose that, at the moment, it's just as difficult as it would be if she knew the truth. I can't imagine seeing a member of my immediate family leave the country; in this respect, too, I'm a heartless bastard (and a hypocrite). Thanks for the talking-to; I probably needed it. If you'd like a to-the-point statement on the popularity of my writing, I'll allow that I get better feedback than a lot of people in this office, which I'm secretly proud of. It's just another source of guilt sometimes, to be honest - being secretly proud, I mean. But there are many kinds of secret pride; I'm secretly proud that I have you, and I'm secretly proud that we've managed to pull this off. Maybe not-so-secretly. The trouble with secrets is that they're the worm at the heart of the tower (that's a phrase from a poem that a writer I like wrote last year, by the way). They eat you from the inside until the hole's big enough, and they finally slip out into daylight.

You can ship your things whenever you'd like; I assure you it'll be the high point of my month when they arrive. Josh says hi, by the way, and asks if you're getting nervous. I've told him that you're probably as nervous as I am, but he doesn't think that's a legitimate answer and wants to hear it from the horse's mouth (meaning: directly from the source). You haven't mentioned Iggy much lately. Is he hating you again? Josh is here, obviously, and I'm being a bad older brother. If you need anything, drop a line and I'll call.

Love,  
Jonathan

P.S. Did you get the flight booked as planned?

 

*****

**To:** trachimbrodtales@yahoo.com  
 **From:** odessawithlove@hotmail.com  
 **Date:** 21-Jul-2001 15:43  
 **Subject:** Yes, the flight is booked. Don't be distressed!

 

Dear Jonathan,

I should warn you that Iggy is not hating me so much, as he is here with me in Odessa today, at the library. He is busy in an American chat room, which is usual for him whenever he finds access to a computer. I'm ashamed to say that his English will be better than mine in no time at all. If you recall the manner in which he answered the phone at Christmas, I did not teach him that. Does Josh continue to vastly progress in Russian? We have not been so premium in keeping up your Russian lessons, but that will be much easier when I'm there, as I'll be able to talk to you until you have no choice but to comprehend. Don't think that I will not do this, as I have been giving it much consideration. It will be the most foolproof way in which to teach you. I suggest that you stop attending your course, as it will save you money, and I'll have the advantage of living with you, which your teacher does not. By the way, will your neighbors find this strange? Will the person from whom you rent be agreeable with a second person living in the flat? These are important questions, I feel.

Iggy would like me to inform you that American chat rooms are fucking awesome. I would like to point out that he swears in English all the time, as not every Ukrainian person realizes that he is swearing. By _not every Ukrainian person_ , I mean Mother and Andriy, and many people in the library. I'm thinking that the muzzle we imposed (correct usage!) upon Sammy Davis Junior, Junior would come in handy, except it does not fit Iggy. I imagine that Josh will begin to bother us about having him for a pen pal, which we may want to consider. It will make Mother feel as if she has some link to me, and this will be a personal example of good international relations. It may permit our secrets to become more like worms, but at least we will be open and on decent terms with my family.

I'm attaching to this message my flight details, and also informing you of the tracking numbers of the boxes I have shipped. It's a good thing Mother contributed to the cost of my airfare, as the shipping bill was completely without mercy. I recommend that you call me when the boxes arrive, because that way I won't continue to worry about them. For the moment, I must quickly close this message, as Iggy is getting nosy and also wishes me to participate in his English lesson. I suspect it will be the death of me.

Much love, my Safran,  
Alex

 

*****

**To:** odessawithlove@hotmail.com  
 **From:** trachimbrodtales@yahoo.com  
 **Date:** 22-Jul-2001 10:19  
 **Subject:** Not distressed! Honest!

 

Dear Alex,

Can I just say that it's unbelievable that you'll be here in under a month?

Now that I've gotten that out of my system: Iggy, whoa, slow down there. You're probably right; kids are so much better at picking up new languages than old codgers like us. Seriously, that's what it feels like. His Russian isn't as good as Iggy's English, but Josh can chatter circles around me. It's disgusting. He's also studying Spanish at school, at which I turned up my nose, because _everybody_ in America studies Spanish in high school. The French crew, now, we were the minority and therefore pretty hardcore —although the German class had it even harder, because there were even fewer of them than there were of us. Are languages other than English popular fare in Ukrainian secondary schools? I imagine there'd be a lot of emphasis placed on continental European languages.

Honestly, my landlord doesn't care what I do, as long as he gets paid. I don't cause trouble like some of the tenants do (noise, parties, etc.), so I wouldn't be surprised if he doesn't even notice. Of course, we could run into trouble if Lisa brings over a lot of alcohol; she can get kind of loud, and the night would probably have to end with half a roll of duct tape over her mouth. I'm sorry to say that if you're still determined that we're going to have s'mores for Halloween, we'll have to do them in the microwave. I can't think of anywhere that's safe for making a campfire, and my family doesn't have a house somewhere upstate or in Connecticut or anything like that. I think Lisa's grandparents do, but I'm not about to impose upon her. There, that's an example of the most typical usage of the word for you.

I'll be on the lookout for your boxes, but if you sent them by the cheapest rate (freight), they're traveling by ship and probably won't get here until after you do. Therefore, I hope you've packed all the really important things—clothes, papers, etc.—in the luggage you'll be checking. I hope the English lesson wasn't too painful, and I guess you may be right about letting them write to each other. Maybe Josh will be a good influence on him. I don't know. I'm still terrified of the thought of them corresponding, and I know I'm being irrational. If you think it'll make dealing with your mom less rough, I'm all for it. It's not something I usually think about, but when I make myself stop and consider it, the entire situation is so completely bizarre that...I can only employ ellipsis. Yeah. Wow. How did this happen? It's rhetorial question, obviously, and I'm not actually questioning our situation. I wouldn't trade it for any kind of sanity.

Should I call you next week? We'll be cutting it close.

Your Safran, always,  
J

 

*****

**To:** trachimbrodtales@yahoo.com  
 **From:** odessawithlove@hotmail.com  
 **Date:** 29-Jul-2001 14:53  
 **Subject:** Yes, please call me tomorrow.

 

I'm in Odessa with Mother today, and I have snuck to a cyber cafe under the pretense of getting some coffee. She is trying to help me find things I will need in America, but I'm trying to tell her America will have everything I need (including you, but I don't say this). She is driving me, how do you say it, up a tree? Iggy is hating both of us because he was not permitted to come.

Love,  
Alex

P.S. The languages most usual in school would be Russian, with Ukrainian as a required subject and options for German and sometimes French. This is how it was in my education, although I did not study French or very much German.

 

*****

**30 July 2001, 9:34 AM / 4:34 PM**

_Ring. Ring ring. Ring —  
_

"Your timing is impeccable, Jonathan."

"Yeah, well. I try. Nobody's home?"

"That is correct. I have quit my job in preparation for leaving, but Mother is at work, and so is Andriy."

"What about Iggy?"

"Iggy is with his friend Dmitry, who is the one he thought he would find on the phone at Christmas."

"I remember that. Are they partners in English-speaking crime?"

"Kind of, but Dmitry is not as premium with English as Iggy."

"Apparently he knows the phrase 'What's up?', though."

"Yes, but every young person in Ukraine knows this."

"Fair enough. I noticed popular English phrases here and there in Odessa."

"Even in the villages, it's like this. Enough about English in Ukraine. How is your day?"

"It's barely started. It's almost 10 AM."

"And my day is nearly over. Mother will return within several hours, and Andriy will return somewhat before her."

"And Iggy?"

"He won't come back for many hours."

"We have a little time, then?"

"Yes. We have a little time."

"This is your cell ph—mobile—that I dialed, yeah?"

"Yes, you've remembered correctly."

"Right, um. Are you...in private? I mean, even though nobody's home, are you—"

"In the room which I share with Iggy, with the door locked."

"Oh. Good. Because I wouldn't want to ask you to imagine I'm touching you unless you were."

"I was imagining this already, Jonathan."

"I know. The sound of your voice changes."

"So does yours. What are you imagining?"

"Exactly what you're imagining."

"Then add to this that I'm kissing the place on your shoulder, which makes you shiver."

"...no problem. God, I miss... _um_. You know. Touching you. Like this."

"I miss kissing you, Jonathan, and I miss even more the things we have not done."

"Like what?"

"Fucking you. I thought you would remember this."

"...I do. Yes. Definitely. And... _you_. Too. I mean —"

" _Shhh_. Let me speak to you, Jonathan. I'll be able to hear you."

[ . . . ]

 

*****

**To:** odessawithlove@hotmail.com  
 **From:** trachimbrodtales@yahoo.com  
 **Date:** 31-Jul-2001 12:35  
 **Subject:** You've completely ruined my concentration. Are you proud?

 

Because, honestly, I'm at work now, and I can't think about anything except you whispering over the phone. It's a good thing we're all on lunch break; otherwise, Lisa would be leaning over my shoulder wanting the sordid details. It feels like an incredibly long time since last summer. It was nice to be able to call you any time I wanted without having to worry about nosy family getting in the way. I should stop whining; I'll have you back in 18 days (yes, I'm counting). It's funny, but I've never been obsessed with sex—I mean, not with _getting_ it; I think being obsessed with it in writing is something else entirely —but keeping you in bed for a week once you get here is all I can think about. It's probably more being obsessed with _you_ instead of being obsessed with sex, but still. Most nights recently, I want you so badly I can't sleep. There, another indelicate truth to add to your collection.

Love, lust, or whatever it is,  
J

 

*****

**To:** trachimbrodtales@yahoo.com  
 **From:** odessawithlove@hotmail.com  
 **Date:** 5-Aug-2001 14:36  
 **Subject:** Very proud indeed.

 

Dear Jonathan,

I would not call this truth indelicate, as it's a truth I can admit to you in return, and I don't see anything out of the ordinary with it. I think about you not only at night, but sometimes during daylight. This is a normal thing between lovers, unless literature and psychologists are very mistaken. As for lust, I think it becomes something different when the person you desire is the person you love. For instance, I would say that Iggy has lust for the girls in porn (I'm sorry to give you this mental image), but I would never describe what I feel for you as lust. I would describe it as love, or even as wanting you (as you have done), but it is not simply that I wish to use your body for pleasure. I wish for this pleasure to enter your heart and your mind, also, as it enters my heart and my mind when I'm being carnal with you. There, for old times' sake, it should make you smile to hear me say this. Perhaps _being carnal_ is still the best parlance for us, as it has a joke and personal meaning attached to it. Even you have used it when you're being sarcastic, but I know that you mean it in an intensely sensual and meaningful way. Until I knew the proper words —making love, having privacy, being intimate, whichever is most whimsical—being carnal had to suffice with whatever meaning I could give it by implication. In what would have been my last letter to you, I admitted many things, such as what I thought, and I had hoped to make this clear by signing the letter with _love_. Fortunately, you understood this. I wanted very much to be carnal with you, but not in a lustful way. Being carnal with you —making love to you, Jonathan—is somehow holy.

I will leave you with this to consider on your Monday lunch break. Hello, Lisa!

Guilelessly, although not really,  
Alex >:-)

 

*****

**To:** odessawithlove@hotmail.com  
 **From:** trachimbrodtales@yahoo.com  
 **Date:** 6-Aug-2001 15:47  
 **Subject:** Dear God, he's discovered emoticons. Head for the hills!

 

Dear Alex,

If anyone catches me printing that off, I'm dead meat, but I couldn't care less. It's times like this I wish our correspondence _was_ being turned into a novel, because, you know, your sections are funny and insightful and weirdly hot all at once, and that's the kind of prodigy nonsense that sells. However, I'm not a fan of having my dirty laundry aired for all to see, so I guess I'll count my blessings. I think we're too dorky for the mass market, to be honest. We don't have a tragic enough ending, so it's not worth reading about. I can't think of anything to add to your discussion of being carnal; that about sums it up. As awkward an expression it is, I'm pretty fond of it. I'm pretty fond of a lot of your expressions (even though I still correct you now and then), and I've been sad to see some of them go. Makes it all the more worth waiting for when you ham it up around Lisa. Who didn't read your message, thankfully, but I did tell her you send your love.

Further to my new subject line, I'm sure that >:-) isn't the only emoticon you've discovered—but I thought perhaps you'd like a sampling of the ones in my repertoire (and Josh's), in case you're looking to adopt others:

:-)

:-(

:-P

:-X

:-I

:-?

:-*

O_O

-_-

>_ *****

 

 **To:** trachimbrodtales@yahoo.com  
 **From:** odessawithlove@hotmail.com  
 **Date:** 11-Aug-2001 13:19  
 **Subject:** :-O

 

Dear Jonathan,

The imposition of this particular subject is my way of saying that I can't believe there is only a week left. The months have flown in comparison to times past, and in some ways I'm not ready to consider the fact that I'm leaving Mother, Andriy, and Iggy for a considerable duration. I know that I should visit them during my studies, but how will I accomplish this without spending gratuitous amounts of currency. I know that you are always ready to be of assistance, but I would not wish you to be spending all of your paychecks on sending me home at the holidays. Perhaps both of us can make visits to Ukraine if we plan far enough in advance? While I'm nervous about my family discovering our relationship, I do not wish to hide the truth from them indefinitely. If we have taught each other anything, it is that the truth is worth more than time and hope put together, and perhaps it is the thing that binds the two together when love is in doubt.

Thank you for the listing of emoticons, as I had not seen all of them—especially not the final three. They provide a frontal view which is very unique, and I think I will make use of it experimentally in order to convey my meaning to you when I'm feeling playful. I'm surprised that you have not used these them in previous emails, as they're the kind of thing I would have learned very rapidly if I had known about them sooner. Iggy will be thrilled to learn them, too; I will give them to him before I leave, as he will be hating me then especially, and I wish to give him something amusing and also potentially serious as a means of future communication. Your lessons in setting up webmail have finally proved useful, as I have helped him to set up a webmail account, which he can use to contact me in New York. His address is iggystardust543@hotmail.com—I tried to convince him that there were many things more original than an allusion to David Bowie, but he would not accept anything less. Lisa is proud of my brother's taste in American music. Do you listen to Bowie, or to the Clash?

I don't have much time left, Jonathan. The next bus home is soon, and I have promised Mother I'll return before dusk. Please call me so that we can speak before I depart. There are many things I would like to say aloud instead of in writing.

Yours always,  
Alex ^-^

 

*****

**To:** odessawithlove@hotmail.com  
 **From:** trachimbrodtales@yahoo.com  
 **Date:** 12-Aug-2001  
 **Subject:** Hey, I didn't teach you that one!

 

I know you won't read this until you're here with me. Still, I'm sending it.

I love you so much, Alex. Come and find me.

—J

 

*****

**16 August 2001, 12:45 PM / 7:45 PM**

_Ring. Ring ri — _

"Hello? This...is Irina speaking. _Kak pazhivayete_ , Jonfen?"

"Hello. _Spasiba, harasho_. Is...Alex...there?"

" _Da, da_. Alex!"

" _Spasiba_ , Irina."

"I think you've impressed her, Jonathan."

"Oh? _Oh_. Hi."

"She did not expect you to speak Russian, and I think that this is a major advantage."

"God, I'm lucky I could remember how to say 'Fine, thanks'. It must have sunk in deep."

"I think so. Your brain is a very deep place."

"Even though it's a Jewish brain?"

"Definitely. It's also a Ukrainian brain, which means there's something good about it."

"Oh, thanks. That's reassuring."

"At least one of us is reassured. Personally, I'm shitting a brick."

"Me too. But aren't you excited, too?"

"Yes, more than I've ever been excited about anything."

"See? It's going to be just fine. Nervousness is normal."

"I know this, but I can't help fearing something will go wrong. Perhaps my boxes will end up in Armenia instead of America. This would not be favorable, as I cannot buy everything from scratch."

"I hope you didn't write 'America' on the boxes, because the standard is USA."

"Are you stupid? Of course I didn't. I've sent you many letters by now."

"I was dragging out your joke, Alex. Relax."

"I'm sorry. I've been very tired, and things don't make sense to me."

"It's okay. Honest. My fault."

"It is nobody's fault. I suppose this will be our last conversation before the flight?"

"Yeah. Two days, and you're here. I'd better spend those days working instead of writing email."

"Forgive me if I've become too much of a distraction from your work."

"Never! You're a welcome respite from Lisa."

"Why does she bother you instead of doing her own work, Jonathan?"

"Because the graphics design team has it fucking easy, that's why. They're constantly waiting on the fussy writers to finish up so they can put everything that's not the covers together."

"Are most writers regarded as fussy?"

"A lot of writers, anyway. I'm the fussy kind."

"Yes, this I know _very_ well."

"Hey, I'm trying. I don't correct you as much as I used to, and I haven't asked you to edit yourself recently. I'm amazed you could forgive me for some of the crit I gave you on your chapters. I was harsh."

"I could have hated you for that, too, to be honest, but I was hating you more for not permitting Safran and the Gypsy Girl to have a happy ending. Fortunately, we have fixed this."

"Better half indeed."

"Thank you. I will hold you to this when we are in disagreement."

"Can I be your better half once in a while, at least?"

"It'll be your reward for exemplary behavior. How is that?"

"Merciful enough. You've earned the right to be harsh."

"I dislike it that I must be harsh now, but Mother is giving me 'you have been on the phone long enough' looks. I think that Iggy is wanting to call Dmitry. They have been inseparable."

"Maybe he'll forget about Josh."

"Not on your life! He wishes to have a native English speaker to correspond with."

"Go on, then. Don't let me be selfish. I'll be seeing you Saturday."

"You will meet me like last time?"

"Exactly like. I love you. You don't have to say it."

"I do, too, Jonathan. I will see you soon."

 _Click_.

 

*** * ***

**18 August 2001, 5:45 PM**

"Are the flights always slightly late?" asks Lisa, shifting in her chair. The faux leather squeaks unpleasantly as she shrinks down in her seat as far as she possibly can. "Cheap-ass JFK lounge shit," she mutters.

"Usually, yes," responds Jonathan, flipping the pages of their newest issue disinterestedly. The advertizements section was thrown together hastily, judging by the lack of balance and organization. "Who did this, Daniel? It sucks."

"Yeah," says Lisa, yawning. "What do you expect? He was in a hurry to go on vacation."

Jonathan closes the magazine and tosses it into Lisa's lap. She makes a halfhearted sound of protest, but she straightens the pages and tucks it back into her canvas bag. They're the only English-speakers at the gate without an accent, and Jonathan catches someone staring at them every once in a while. Lisa seems oblivious, staring at the ceiling, out the windows, at the floor. Jonathan glances at the check-in desk, frowning. The woman at the computer is typing away furiously, and she pauses only to pick up the phone and hit the intercom button. First comes the announcement in Russian, followed by the predictable repetition in English.

"Ukraine International Flight 1731 will shortly be arriving at the gate. Thank you for your patience."

"Hallelujah," Lisa mutters, sitting up straight and tucking her hair behind her ears. "Now it's only a million years till they get the walkway hooked up and let the passengers off."

"You're the most impatient person on the face of the planet," Jonathan says, and gets up.

"Hey, wait!" Lisa calls, jogging to catch up with him. "I'm sorry. I don't like airports."

"Why?" Jonathan asks, glancing at her only briefly as the woman at the desk prepares to open the door to the gate. The plane is gigantic, just like last time. It must be three rows of seats across at _least_.

"They remind me of hospitals," says Lisa, and doesn't elaborate.

The flood of people is noisy and tired, some speaking Russian, some Ukrainian, some English. It's a bizarre feeling to be able to distinguish between the three, Jonathan thinks, scanning the crowd for Alex's familiar face. It's not too soon, because first class has almost managed to clear. Lisa is bouncing up and down beside Jonathan, trying to see over a clump of businessmen.

"There he is!" she shouts, pointing. "Good thing he's tall. I could spot him a mile off."

"Jonathan, you didn't tell me we would be having company," Alex says as he approaches, giving Jonathan the peculiar half-smile that indicates he's exhausted and exhilerated and has definitely been here before. "How have you been doing?" he asks Lisa, setting down his carry-on. He hugs her first, briefly, then turns to Jonathan. "Well, don't you have an excuse for this?"

"She tagged along," admits Jonathan, shrugging. "I couldn't talk her out of it, not even with threats of making her watch this lovey-dovey shit, you know?"

He wants more than anything to have been kissing Alex several seconds ago, but they're kissing now, and it's better late than never. Alex's arms are so tight around him that he feels himself nearly lifted off the ground. They're both shaking. They're in JFK in the midst of a couple hundred strangers and Alex is kissing him as if it were nothing, as if he doesn't care who sees or what they might think.

"Should've brought the oxygen tank," says Lisa, somewhere in the background, but it's not worth breaking off the kiss just to yell at her. Alex finally does, but he doesn't let go of Jonathan.

"This is how we say hello in Ukraine," he explains, flashing her a grin. "It would be rude of me not to do this."

"How come I didn't get a kiss?" she pouts, tugging on a strand of her hair.

"You slut," Jonathan says, too keyed up to laugh, but wanting to. He pokes her in the elbow, which is all that his fingertips can reach. "Daniel will be _devastated_."

Alex's eyes go wide. "Lisa, have you been hiding this from me?"

"No," she says, shoving Jonathan's hand aside. "Daniel's had a stupid crush on me—and every other girl in the office, might I add—ever since we started working together."

"Why do you not take him up on it? Maybe you're a suitable match with him."

"Thanks, Alex, but I don't think so," she says, shouldering her bag with a sigh. "Come on. The taxis don't wait for slowpokes."

"We're not in a hurry," Jonathan says, but Lisa is already half a dozen steps ahead of them.

"She's envious," Alex says, tugging Jonathan in for another kiss, brief this time. "Ignore it."

"I'll try," replies Jonathan, stooping to collect Alex's carry-on. "Let's catch up with her and get your bags, huh?"

"Premium idea," says Alex, and they laugh until they find Lisa in the crowd.

Half an hour later, they're standing on the curb under the fierce glare of the sun, waiting for a cab. The line moves slowly, and there are four or five people ahead of them. Lisa smacks one of Alex's suitcases with the flat of her hand, whistling.

"Two bags," she says, clearly impressed. "No _way_ could I fit my life in two bags."

"What you don't know is that I've shipped three boxes," Alex says, attempting to take his carry-on from Jonathan a second time. "Jonathan will have a nightmare attempting to find places for my things."

"They haven't arrived yet. We'll start worrying if they don't show up by next week," Jonathan says, grasping the shoulder strap more firmly. "They should be arriving soon, though."

"Why don't we go for drinks or something after we've dumped off Alex's stuff?" Lisa suggests, taking a wobbly seat on one of the suitcases. She manages to hop off before it falls over. Jonathan lunges forward to catch it, giving her a stern look.

"Alex is probably tired," he tells her, wheeling the suitcase forward as the line moves. "Maybe tomorrow evening, but I was thinking we'd just eat in and call it a night."

"I would prefer this," Alex says, giving Lisa a look that doesn't _quite_ manage to be apologetic.

"Hey, okay, cool," she says, scuffing the toe of her canvas tennis shoe along the curb. "Just thought I'd ask."

"Nobody has your stamina," Jonathan says. He intends it as a consolation-prize compliment, but it comes out as patronizing, and he hates himself for it. Alex returns his glance with an imperceptible shrug. _It's not your fault_ , it seems to say, and Jonathan finds the gesture reassuring.

"In that case," Lisa says, shouldering her canvas bag tightly, which Jonathan has come to recognize as a posture of vulnerability, "I'm snagging this cab and leaving you guys to catch the next."

Before either of them can say anything, she ducks into the back of the vehicle. The driver is dark-skinned and young, with wavy black hair in desperate need of cutting. His round, expressive eyes have a desolation about them, and Jonathan finds it necessary to look away. By the time he looks up again, the cab is gone, taking Lisa with it. Alex's hand finds the small of Jonathan's back, nudging him towards the curb.

"We are next," he says gently, already handing one of the suitcases off to the driver.

It's a blessedly quick ride, at least in comparison to last year's. The traffic isn't terrible for a Saturday night, and instead of drifting off, Alex stares out the windows with avid interest, as if to take note of the precise route they're taking. Jonathan finds that _he's_ the tired one, and it's only when they screech to a stop in front of Jonathan's building that he realizes he must have drifted off. Alex is smirking at him, blatantly amused.

"I had a deadline yesterday," Jonathan explains, handing all that he's got in his pocket—sixty dollars and some odd change—to the driver. "It kicked my ass." He thanks the driver with a nod and watches the man get back into the cab and drive away. They're standing on the curb again, the two of them with Alex's luggage and a gulf of silence where Lisa once stood.

"I can see this," Alex says, taking hold of both suitcases. "Fortunately, I'm not so tired, as I slept very much on the plane. Do you have enough strength for cooking?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," insists Jonathan, shaking himself, and picks up Alex's carry-on. "Sorry about all the steps. We've got more to haul this time."

The apartment is a pleasant, air-conditioned chilly, just as Jonathan had left it that afternoon. Alex abandons the suitcases beside the door and makes for the nearest piece of furniture, which is the couch, and collapses on it. His face is flushed with the heat and a fine sheen of sweat, and getting his sneakers untied seems to be a chore. Jonathan drops the carry-on and kicks out of his own shoes, blinking at Alex on the couch before wearily regarding the kitchen.

"I've got salad and leftover tofu stir-fry," he confesses, rubbing his forehead. "That's really all."

"It will be fine," Alex says, as if to calm him. "Come sit with me?"

"In a minute," Jonathan says, starting for the kitchen. "I would, but if I do, I'm never going to get us fed. No offense."

"Then I'll come with you," Alex says, immediately on his feet.

Jonathan is sure it shouldn't take this long to microwave a casserole dish and portion out lettuce into bowls, but Alex seems to get underfoot at every step of the way. His arms around Jonathan's waist aren't unwelcome, but Jonathan makes a mess of the salad, scattering carrot shavings and red cabbage all over the place. It's by the grace of God alone that he manages to fish two forks out of the silverware drawer while Alex is kissing the back of his neck, and a sheer _miracle_ that both the plates and the bowls end up on the coffee table. Alex digs ravenously into the stir-fry, carnal activity temporarily forgotten.

"I knew you were hungry," says Jonathan, his mouth full. "I heard your stomach in the cab."

"It's often talkative after a long journey," Alex admits, poking the salad around before sniffing at the bit of Catalina dressing that's gotten on his fork. "Even by bus. What _is_ this?"

"Dressing," explains Jonathan. "It makes the lettuce and things taste less...plain."

Alex dabs some onto his tongue, making a face of doubt that quickly fades to one of surprise.

"It's like honey and tomatoes," he says, apparently pleased.

"Exactly," replies Jonathan, grinning into his bowl.

The moments of silence that follow are interrupted only by chewing and the clink of plates being set back on the table. Alex finishes first, leaning in to watch Jonathan finish his salad, as if fascinated by the process. Jonathan finally sets his bowl down on top of his empty plate, _enough_ of this nonsense, and pins Alex against the back of the couch. He tastes like Catalina and, under that, coffee. _Probably from the plane_ , thinks Jonathan, dimly, and shifts over into Alex's lap at the urging of Alex's hands on his hips. It's a wonder that they can still do this after so many months apart, and astounding, too, what the body remembers. He sinks forward with a sigh against Alex's mouth. _Drowning_ , he thinks, _this is drowning; if I'd been Brod I wouldn't have survived such ecstasy_.

"I would very much," Alex says between kisses, his hands already working their way down the line of buttons on Jonathan's shirt, "like to thank you for...discouraging Lisa...from coming here with us."

"Oh, God, I knew she'd try that," Jonathan mutters, but heart isn't in expressing his horror over her behavior so much as it's in the sensation of Alex's mouth on his shoulder. He shivers, tightening his arms around Alex's neck. "Do you think we should take this..."

"I will be happy to take this wherever you'd like it," Alex says, pausing just long enough to help Jonathan out of his shirt. "I'm not so particular, and we've never done this on a couch."

Jonathan nods, too dazed to find this statement anything but agreeable, and busies himself with tugging Alex's blue t-shirt up and over his head. The heat radiating from Alex's skin is as relentless as the sun has been, an inferno from which there's been little respite. Jonathan wonders if a drought is coming, if they'll be asked to conserve water until the thunderstorms roll in. Alex tastes less like coffee now and more like himself, and already he's undone Jonathan's fly and is clumsily working at his own. Jonathan rolls off of him for just long enough to kick free of his jeans and boxers, finding, spur of the moment, that it makes sense to drop down onto the floor and tug Alex's jeans off by force. There's always something inherently funny about this part, as if they haven't quite gotten over how simple it really is, the moment of revelation. Alex is looking down at him through glazed eyes, the rise of his chest escalating sharply as Jonathan's fingers find his cock and coax it out through the front of his briefs. Jonathan teases back the foreskin gently, sobered by the task.

"That kind of threw me for a loop the first time," he admits, taking an unhurried lick. The taste is as familiar as the rest of Alex, even after all this time. He closes his eyes and kisses the head, taking it fully into his mouth for a second, then letting it slip back out. Alex tenses and moans, grabbing hold of Jonathan's hands on his thighs.

"What...threw you, exactly?" he manages, adopting the phrase with admirable ease.

"You're not circumcized," says Jonathan, trying to ignore his own arousal as he runs his thumb down the underside of Alex's erection. "I wouldn't have expected it, though. I know it's not typical in Europe."

"I didn't care what you would be like, to be honest," replies Alex, breathing hard. His head has already fallen back against the cushions, and his eyes seem to close a fraction for every sweep of Jonathan's thumb.

"It's not that I _cared_ ," Jonathan says, giving Alex's thighs a slight squeeze as he leans in to kiss Alex's belly. "It's just...not something you think about, I guess...till you're faced with it."

"You're faced with...a lot at the moment, perhaps?"

"That's worse than your jokes on the phone," Jonathan murmurs, taking as much of Alex into his mouth as he can. The heat seems to spark and flare behind Jonathan's eyelids: a sunburst for each cry, and a river of warmth on his tongue when Alex at last cannot breathe.

 

**19 August 2001, 8:32 PM**

"I trust you guys have got it all out of your system," says Lisa, dryly, lighting a cigarette. "And by 'it', I'm pretty sure you know what I mean. We're going to have drinks like civilized people."

Alex watches the flash of her throat as she inhales, certain that no Ukrainian girl he's ever known would dare to make such a comment in public, even to two of her closest male friends. Maybe if she was very, very drunk, or maybe if she wanted some kind of revenge on one of them—or both of them—for breaking up with her. It's a particularly American kind of spite, and it worries him. Jonathan, on the other hand, is trying to ignore it, as if it's something perfectly average in the dangerous game of knowing Lisa. Alex isn't entirely sure why he's come to think of it as dangerous, but the glint in her eye holds a trace of malice and tells him that he's right.

"Whatever," says Jonathan, waving the puff of smoke out of his face. "Alex, what're you having?"

"Rum and Coke," Alex replies, deciding that he'd better steer clear of vodka, as he suspects that's exactly what Lisa would like him to have, and he's not in any mood to cooperate with her. "What will you take?"

"Wine," Jonathan says, and makes for the bar before Lisa can place her order.

"Well, isn't he feeling chivalrous," she says, flicking some ash onto the table. "I'm going to get myself a screwdriver. Don't go anywhere!"

"There is nowhere to go," Alex says as she saunters off. Playing dumb is likely his best defense.

Jonathan returns before Lisa does, setting down their drinks with shaky hands. It's then that Alex realizes he's more disturbed than he dares to admit, so he reaches across the table and takes hold of Jonathan's hand. Jonathan grins—his mouth as unsteady as his hands, so different from last night—and raises his glass of red wine high against the background of flashing lights.

"Here's to crazy bitches," he proposes, and the irony is not lost on them.

"To Sammy Davis Junior, Junior," Alex says, judiciously catching Lisa's eye as she returns.

"That's your dog, isn't it?" Lisa asks, sipping her screwdriver, which looks like it contains nothing but orange juice. "I remember Jonathan telling me about her. Crazy bitch indeed."

"Yes, although she is more like Iggy's dog now," Alex admits, taking a sip of his drink. The rum isn't too strong, and it blends into the Coke better than the first time he'd tried this particular oddity. "Since I've been making preparations to leave, she has been sleeping on his bed."

"I hear she liked Jonathan _lots_ ," says Lisa, coyly, stirring her drink. Alex understands that there must be either rum or vodka in it, because the alcohol doesn't show or change the color of the juice.

"Okay, can I veto the direction in which this conversation is heading?" Jonathan asks, glancing back and forth between Alex and Lisa, but mostly at Lisa. "I thought you said we were going to have drinks like civilized people."

"This _is_ civilized," insists Lisa, winking at Alex. "Welcome to New York," she adds, and Alex is momentarily too stunned by the heel of her shoe brushing his ankle to move. He wonders if he should make some excuse, like needing to go to the washroom. Jonathan can tell there's something wrong; he's looking at Alex with his eyebrows knit together, questioning. _What is it? What's happening?_

"In Ukraine, civilized is a bottle of vodka and some little glasses," Alex says, unable to think of anything else, throwing her foot off of his as subtly as he can manage. "This, I would not hesitate to call silly."

As expected, Lisa takes offense. She takes a long drag on her cigarette, turning her head to blow the smoke in Jonathan's direction. The insult is worse than if she'd blown it at Alex, and Alex knows that he should bury the urge to hit her as far down as he possibly can.

"Would you stop that?" Jonathan asks, scooting his chair back about a foot. "You're being a complete jerk this weekend." Alex catches it before Jonathan scoots forward again: the imperceptible flick of Jonathan's eyes to the space beneath the table, the angry twitch of his lips. _Good_ , he thinks, nodding at Jonathan as he settles his chair back in place. _You have understood_.

" _You're_ being completely uptight this weekend," Lisa says, snuffing out her cigarette in the ashtray. "I'll stop for Alex's sake, not yours. At least he's polite enough not to be a nag about it."

"Thank you," Alex says, but what he's thanking her for, exactly, is unclear even to him.

Lisa downs the screwdriver in four gulps, brushing her lips across the back of her hand. "Best of both worlds," she explains, dabbing her hand and mouth with a napkin. "Thirst-quenching _and_ alcoholic."

"Which is going to be you if you keep having doubles," Jonathan says, cradling his glass of wine in both hands. It's half gone already, which means he's been drinking faster than Alex.

"Doubles?" asks Alex, erring on the side of both caution and diversion.

"It's when you get two shots put in a cocktail instead of one," says Jonathan. "Like she does."

"What do you care?" Lisa asks, already on her feet and fishing in her purse for change. "I'm not driving," she says, and stalks off to the bar. Alex finds it amazing that she can stay upright in such high heels—and on the way to intoxicated, at that. He drinks some more Coke and swills the ice around, meeting Jonathan's gaze with a sigh.

"She was hitting on you," Jonathan says in a low voice, taking a long swig of wine. "Actually, she's been hitting on you for a long time, but it's only just now that I think she really means it."

"This is why I suggested that accepting Daniel would be wise," Alex whispers, keeping an eye on the bar. Lisa catches his glance and smiles, the expression half hopeful and half wistful. "He would give her what she is looking for, and—" he pauses, adopting Lisa's sarcastic tone "—I'm pretty sure you know what I mean."

By the time Lisa returns, Jonathan is laughing so hard that there are tears streaming down his cheeks. Alex is both embarrassed and pleased with himself; he's never been especially good at impressions, or at least Iggy has never thought so. Lisa raises her eyebrows, glancing disdainfully at both of them. Her drink appears to be another screwdriver, and the glass is just as tall as her previous one.

"Did I miss something?"

"Yeah," says Jonathan, removing his glasses in order to rub his eyes. " _Whew_. He's got you nailed."

"Excuse me?" she asks, fixing her eyes on Alex. The same quaver of hope is hidden in them, but she isn't smiling anymore. "What does he mean, Alex?"

Just as Alex opens his mouth to make up an excuse, Jonathan says, "He's got your smart-ass tone down perfectly. I wish you'd heard it. You could stand to hear how you sound right about now."

Lisa's eyes dart away from Alex, latching onto Jonathan's with furious intent.

"And how is that, exactly?"

"Like you are taking liberties," Alex cuts in, squeezing Jonathan's hand to silence him. The situation has gone far enough, and simple honesty is the best way to diffuse potentially explosive tension. "I remember a time when the three of us could speak like friends, and even tease each other like friends, but you have made our conversations feel as if there is now hostility between us."

And, with that, Lisa's careful mask shatters. Inwardly, Alex is relieved that some principles of communication apply regardless of what country one is in, but it's difficult to watch her struggle with tears, and more difficult to watch Jonathan struggle with his shame at having provoked her.

"Sorry," she whispers, taking her seat and leaning heavily on the tabletop. "Fuck, I'm sorry. I'm an idiot, and I had some drinks before I got here, and _fuck_. Sorry."

"I understand this can do strange things to the mind," Alex says, as patiently as he can, realizing he might be holding onto his glass so hard that it might shatter, "but I must tell you, you were doing this at the airport also."

"Yeah, well, at least I had a little more restraint," Lisa sighs, smearing a black streak of mascara down one cheek with the back of her hand. "I know it's no excuse. It's just..."

Jonathan is asking silent permission to speak, so Alex gives it to him.

"It's just what?" he asks, sitting back in his chair, arms folded across his chest. "You thought maybe you were part of this?"

"I don't know what I thought, okay?" admits Lisa, defensively. The old spark is back in her eyes now, the thing that makes her predictably dangerous instead of deadly. "But I _am_ part of this. Not in the way I'd like to be, but, you know, I'm friends with both of you for better or for worse, and I'm not going anywhere. You'd have to drag me off." She offers them a grin, impish and sincere.

"Promise you won't do this again," Jonathan sighs, exasperated, burying his nose and mouth in his hands. "Please?" The word emerges muffled and indistinct, but his tone is pleading.

"For Jonathan," says Alex, before he can stop himself. "You have known him for longer than me. This is very important. I don't want to see this put a space between you, _ponimaesh_?" Alex adds the Russian without thinking, but in his heart, he knows that he's asking Jonathan to understand that, for him, _he_ is all that matters. In comparison, Lisa is infinitely expendable.

" _Ponimayu_ ," comes the answer from both of them, in perfect unison.

Alex blinks at Lisa, then at Jonathan. Clearly, the Russian lessons have been promiscuous.

"Good, then," he says, not bothering to switch back to English. Only Jonathan can understand him now, and it's just as well. "Let's have one more drink and get out of here. This bitch is boring, and we have better things to do at home." _Home_. He offers the word to Jonathan with enunciated care, and Jonathan's eyes grow brighter than the ruthless American sun.

"I'll drink to that," says Jonathan, in Russian, and Lisa smiles like a woman defeated.

 

**24 August 2001, 10:43 AM**

It takes the two of them three trips to haul the boxes upstairs: one trip for each box. Jonathan would like to ask Alex what the hell is in them, as heavy as they are, but he supposes he's going to discover that soon enough. He couldn't be more glad that he'd thought to use up some of his holiday time on Alex's first week back in the country, as the outings with Josh and the endless late-night conversations alone have made him glad of the time to sleep in. Jonathan locks the door behind them, as if it'll somehow keep out the humid, stifling air.

"Is this usual for the summer?" asks Alex, pressing a dampened dish towel to his forehead.

"Yes and no," says Jonathan, reaching for it. "Usual in that we have hot weather right up through the end of September, but unusual in that this is a freakish heat wave. I hear Hartford and Boston are getting hammered, too."

"These are cities _north_ of here, yes?" Alex asks, dabbing Jonathan's forehead for him. He wipes away as much of the sweat as he can, then kisses Jonathan's temple as if in apology for missing a spot.

"Yes," Jonathan says, grabbing the towel off of him and chucking it at the sink. "Come on, let's see what's in these boxes of yours."

"Nothing exceedingly impressive," Alex assures him, already slicing into one of the boxes with Jonathan's paring knife. He pries the flaps open, coughing a bit at the rise of dust. "These are books," he announces, holding up a paperback. The title and author's name are entirely in Cyrillic, which Jonathan can now read, but the words mean nothing to him.

"All of them?" Jonathan asks, coming up behind Alex to peer inside. "My _God_."

"I've never emphasized it to you, but books are essential to me," Alex explains, removing an entire stack of them before tugging out some old towels he'd evidently used as padding. "It's important to me to have these so I can continue to read my own language, and also so you can read them once you're fluid with Russian."

"Fluent," says Jonathan, watching with fascination as Alex removes another stack of books.

"Same difference," Alex murmurs distantly, handing the next few books to Jonathan. They're different from the rest, blank-covered and no thicker than two fingers put together. It takes flipping only one of them open to understand that these are Alex's old journals.

"I didn't know," admits Jonathan, sinking down on the floor beside him. He sets the books down, brushing them off as best he can. "How recent are they?"

"Within the past few years," Alex says, turning the box upside-down so that Jonathan can see the damages to his shelf-space really aren't that severe. "You can read these, too, when you are fluent."

"I couldn't," Jonathan replies, stacking them up again. "They're private."

"I read your journal when I was not supposed to," Alex reminds him, picking up the knife and moving on to the next box. "It's fitting that you should read them."

"Yeah, but it's not like you read _all_ of my journal," Jonathan says, crawling over to catch up with him. "I wasn't angry with...well. Not _too_ angry with you, anyway."

"What you wrote there was the truth, and you were trying to protect me from it," Alex responds slowly, making a careful cut. "I would have been terribly angry if I had been you."

"It's over now," insists Jonathan, peeling at the tape on the opposite side of the box. "It's done with, and your family's better off as a result."

"I do hope this," Alex sighs, setting the knife aside. "It will open now."

Blankets, pictures in frames, pencils, a desk lamp without an adapter. Notebooks, shoes, a broken camera, spools of thread, clothing for filler. A small tin of rattling things. Pictures without frames, a few battered action figures, several Matchbox cars, another blanket. Magazines. More books. Blue jeans. Pieces of paper, winter gloves, two scarves, safety pins. More dust.

"Were these yours?" asks Jonathan, turning one of the cars over between his hands. The wheels rattle delicately inside the metal body, the heartbeat of a toy with no plastic to its name. "Josh and I had tons of them. I don't know where they've gone."

"They were Father's," says Alex, sniffing one of the pairs of jeans. He wrinkles his nose and tosses them aside, moving on to the next, as if trying to avoid what is surely inevitable.

"We can do laundry tomorrow if you want," Jonathan offers, wondering if it's at all irrelevant enough to be comforting. "Or we could just go say hello to Mom, leave the clothes there, and they'll miraculously appear on my doorstep next week, all washed and pressed."

"I somehow doubt your mother would appreciate this," says Alex, dubiously, but he seems to be amused.

"Of course she wouldn't. But she's sent a few emails asking if we're planning to stop by, and I thought I'd run the idea by you before committing to anything. Josh is happy enough to see you, so maybe that's reminded her you're actually a human being."

"She actually wishes to see me?" asks Alex, genuinely incredulous. He's moved on to the third box, cutting it open with three neat swipes. He pries it open before Jonathan can get there.

"Of course she does," says Jonathan, trying to peer inside. "She's mad at me, not at you."

Alex reaches in, pulling out a cassette tape with a hand-written jacket lining.

"Music," he says in Russian, pulling out a few more tapes and scattering them across the floor. "Bedclothes, my Safran. A dowry."

Hours later, they're still on the floor: tangled in the bedclothes, surrounded by old dreams and dust.

 

**26 August 2001, 12:22 PM**

Alex feels uncomfortable standing on Jonathan's parents' front porch, but Jonathan is smiling at him as if nothing is wrong, as if everything is going to be fine. He's been careful not to wear a t-shirt this time, and he notices that even Jonathan looks more formal than usual. They've rung the doorbell at least twice already, and no one has answered. Alex clasps his hands together behind his back, watching an ant skitter past the toes of his shoes. He's glad the boxes arrived, or else he wouldn't have had anything but his sneakers.

"Slowpokes," Jonathan mutters, ringing the doorbell again.

Within half a minute, Josh's face appears on the other side of the glass.

" _Dobriy dyehn_! Can I help you guys?"

"You're an idiot!" Jonathan calls back. "Let us in!"

"Good afternoon to you also!" Alex adds, knowing it would be best to let Josh know he was correct.

"At least one of you has manners," replies Josh, and opens the door.

They don't get much beyond the greeting and hugging phase, because as soon as their mother enters the room, both Josh and Jonathan stand up straight and hold their breaths. Alex does his best to imitate them without being obvious about it, which mostly means clasping his hands behind his back again. Jonathan's father—he couldn't be anyone else, surely—is only a few steps behind her, somehow more relaxed than his wife, which Alex had not expected. He smiles and nods to them, as the silence is intolerable, and even Alex's family had not been like this with Jonathan.

"It's very good to see you again, Alex," says Jonathan's mother, and offers her hand.

Jonathan is biting his lip, which is a reminder about the first time they did this.

"It's an honor to return to your home," Alex says, taking her hand between both of his own instead of kissing it. He hopes that it's like both a handshake and a hug, because he isn't sure if either would be appropriate.

Alex's father simply says, "I'm sorry I missed you the first time," and shakes his hand. "Welcome."

"The table's all set," says Jonathan's mother, smiling inscrutably, and leads them to the dining room.

"Was it all right?" asks Alex, hanging back with Jonathan.

"Fine, I think," Jonathan replies, but Josh looks very pale.

"It's all my fault," he says, staring at Alex with terrified eyes.

"It's _not_ ," Jonathan hisses, taking him by the shoulder and pushing him ahead. "Come on."

Out of sheer nervousness, or perhaps some subconscious sense of solidarity with Jonathan, Alex takes spoonfuls of the vegetarian offerings—pasta shells stuffed with some kind of cheese, green beans, tiny potatoes—and doesn't bother to reach for anything else. Josh is ominously quiet, eating quickly with his eyes glued to his plate. It's Jonathan's father who breaks the silence with something other than a request for this food item or that piece of silverware.

"I've heard you're starting an accounting program at NYU," he says to Alex. "That's commendable."

"Thank you. It's been a goal of mine for several years to study in America."

"I'm sure my son did plenty to talk up the schools here."

"He did enough," replies Alex, carefully, his hands almost slipping on the pitcher of iced tea as Jonathan passes it to him. "I had heard of some programs myself, through my university in Ukraine."

"This is only your second visit to the States?" asks Alex's mother, cutting a green bean with her fork.

"Yes," Alex admits, grateful that the task of filling his cup requires his full visual attention. "I've visited other countries in Europe, though, and part of Russia."

"Jonathan's quite the traveler, too," says Jonathan's father. "Where have you been by now?"

"I'll write you a list later," Jonathan responds, intent on cutting his stuffed shells in half. "We're talking about Alex, not about me. He _knows_ where I've been."

"You've been a big inspiration to Josh," Jonathan's mother chimes in, and the hardness in her voice suggests that she's tired of tiptoeing around the elephant in the room. "I never thought I'd see him take up a foreign language. He's studying Spanish at school—all he ever does is complain about it—and suddenly he's speaking enough Russian to carry on simple conversations with his grandmother!"

"She appreciates it very much," adds Jonathan's father, and the realization that the woman who'd given him a gerbera is this man's mother hits Alex like a ton of bricks. He'd like to blame the elephant for that kind of shit, but blaming metaphors is only going to get him so far, and Jonathan is now just as busy eating as Josh.

"Jonathan is not doing so badly with Russian, either," Alex says, desperately searching for a way to change the subject. "I'm hoping to improve my English while studying here."

"Well, I'm sure there's no better way of doing that than living with Jonathan," says Jonathan's mother, and the tension splits at every seam. Josh starts coughing on his iced tea, and Jonathan is trying to keep his expression from appearing offended, as he isn't sure what his mother means, and neither is Alex.

"True enough," agrees Jonathan's father, deciding to play middle ground, possibly even trying to spare them. "Having a writer around the house is dangerous business. You can't say anything without him correcting you."

"I know this _exceedingly_ well," says Alex, and the table erupts into unexpected laughter.

"What were some of your other ones?" asks Josh, when he's finally breathing again. "I know you don't talk like that all the time now, but it was _so_ funny."

"That's not very polite," Jonathan's mother tells him, but she's trying very hard to keep a straight face.

"I don't mind at all," Alex says, glancing at a relieved Jonathan, because it couldn't be more true.

 

**29 August 2001, 3:36 PM**

_Hello, Jonathan. I hope you're having a premium day at work :-* I have gotten your last email, and I'm glad you sent it, as it gives me something to respond to while I'm sitting here attempting to register and schedule my courses. My university in Odessa had something similar to this, but I admit it is somewhat confusing in English. I will prevail, however!_

_— A_

 

"So, are you going to tell me why your fingers haven't moved for about thirty seconds?" Lisa asks, leaning over Jonathan's desk, trying to peer around to his computer screen. Jonathan turns the monitor sharply away from her, disgusted.

"Fucking _enough_ , okay? I'm sick of you reading my email."

" _Je_ sus, okay," says Lisa, straightening up. She's not wearing a ton of make-up for once, and even her black-and-red streaked hair looks tamer than usual. The dark circles under her eyes suggest a lack of sleep, but Jonathan isn't about to ask _why_. "How's Alex getting on?"

"He's at home," Jonathan replies. "I couldn't afford to take two weeks off, and I couldn't bring him to work. He's got a lot of stuff to straighten out before classes start."

"Why couldn't you bring him in? Just for one day," suggests Lisa, straightening up Jonathan's basket of unsorted, unopened mail. "I'm sure everybody would get a kick out of it. I wasn't the only one dying to meet him."

"I swear, you must think he's some kind of circus act," mutters Jonathan, clicking _REPLY_. "He's not your personal entertainment system, and he's not anybody else's. He has a life. Get over it."

Lisa throws her hands in the air. "I'm only trying to be polite. The rest of the crew will meet him sometime. Just think of the holiday parties."

"Yeah, and it can wait until then," says Jonathan, distractedly. _Dear Alex_ , he types, _help me. Get me out of here. Lisa is making such a big fucking nuisance of herself that I could scream_.

"What if he asks to meet them sooner?" Lisa challenges him, chewing on the cap of her pen.

"Then I'll ask if he can come in for the day! Don't you have anything better to do?" _Seriously, she won't get out of my personal space —by which I mean _stop crawling onto my desk _— for even a few seconds. I know that she means well on some level, but she's not very good at getting that across. She's asking me what I'll do if you want to meet the rest of our co-workers, and I'm telling her that if you want to do that, fine, I'll see if you can come in here for a day, but frankly, I find it completely and utterly presumptuous that she should assume—  
_

Lisa rests her palms flat on Jonathan's desk again, leaning over curiously. "I don't like the look on your face. What are you writing?"

"Email!" Jonathan shouts, giving her right shoulder a good shove. "I'm going to file a complaint if you don't go away and let me write my goddamned column."

"You just said you were writing email," Lisa points out, folding her arms across her chest. She looks hurt, and maybe she has the right to be. Jonathan doesn't know, but he doesn't really care, either.

"Email, column, whatever." _It's getting to the point where I think maybe I wouldn't be too far off the mark filing an official complaint. It's beginning to border on something completely twisted and resembling —I hesitate to use this term, but she's leaving me little choice—sexual harrassment. And I know it's more about you than about me, but it involves me, and I'm disgusted that I can't seem to protect you from her unsavory side. I mean, I know you're not about to sleep with her, but Jesus Christ, she's not getting the message, and I'm not a patient person when it comes to creepy stalkers, even if I once considered them friends._

"Cool," Lisa says, her voice clipped and hurt. "I'm gone."

"Good," replies Jonathan, letting go of a sigh. _Oh, whew. There. She's gone. At least she didn't rush around to read this even after I told her to fuck off. I still think finding her a fuck-buddy is the only real solution here; if you want a prime example of lust, I think this is it. I can't believe she tried playing footsie with you. In heels like that? She could've skewered somebody. I'm tempted to ask Daniel if she's pulled any stunts like this the few times they've gone out for drinks. Neveen wouldn't know; she doesn't drink, and I don't think she and Lisa are actually that close. We're not dissimilar, she and I, in that we don't get close to just anyone._

_I'm going to send this. Heaven knows when Lisa's coming back, and I've got to finish the column. I love you. I'm sorry my friends are weirdos. I should probably get some new ones, but I'm not sure where to look. Good luck with the registration and scheduling. It should let you save it so that you can make alterations later if need be; I'll look over it with you once I get home if you want :-*_

_— J_

 

**1 September 2001, 4:53 PM**

In Sabine's dining room, the windows are open, and the pale blue curtains swell with the first cool breeze that Alex has felt since his arrival in New York. He wants to say that they might be pregnant with the promise of rain, but it seems like the wrong thing to say to the woman who is smiling at him from across the table, so he quietly sips his tea. The only sound is Jonathan chewing on a cookie, humming satisfaction to himself.

"They are the color of crocuses in spring, those curtains. A gift from my daughter-in-law two years ago. As a young boy, Jonathan was always very fond of crocuses."

"I think we have this flower in Ukraine," Alex says. "They poke up through the snow."

"Yes, that's the right one," Sabine replies, her mismatched eyes shining. "That's how you will know that spring is on the way here. Do you remember why you liked them so, Jonathan?"

"Not really," says Jonathan, picking up his teacup. "The color, probably."

"The color, yes, but I told you something about this plant that made it special to you."

Jonathan glances searchingly at Alex, as if he might know the answer. Alex shrugs, giving Sabine an apologetic smile. "I think he does not remember. Will you tell _me_ , at least?"

"There is a spice, saffron, that comes from the crocus plant," explains Sabine, pronouncing _saffron_ just like _Safran_. "The name of my husband is the word for that spice in Old French, and in several other languages. It's also one of Jonathan's names, and he was pleased to know that the plant somehow belonged to him."

"Huh," says Jonathan, wearing the same expression as when he'd explained to Alex the way he used to hide under his grandmother's skirt. "I honestly don't remember that. Cool trivia, though."

"There is an unpleasant side to this," Sabine says, pointing a finger at Jonathan. Turning her glance back to Alex, she continues, "To give saffron or crocus in a bouquet of flowers is to suggest abuse. Do you know this 'language of flowers' they are always speaking of?"

"Not very much," Alex admits, although he knows that red roses are for passion, because everyone knows it.

"I didn't know that," Jonathan says, not so much embarrassed as startled. "Is that true?"

"Yes, my Safran," says Sabine, offering her grandson another cookie. "But your grandfather did not live up to it, and neither will you."

The three of them are silent for a long time, and the curtains seem to shiver before falling still.

 

**4 September 2001, 5:27 PM**

The walk home feels longer than usual, probably on account of the heat. Jonathan knows that he's fortunate to have found an apartment within walking distance of the office, but in a heat wave, it's cold comfort. The buses are at least bearable, assuming the air-conditioning is even half functional. Jonathna rounds the last corner, jogging the last ten yards. Alex had a second day of orientation, which he'd insisted upon attending even though it had nothing to do with his program. Jonathan takes the steps two at a time, hardly stopping to breathe until he reaches his door. He opens it, hit first by the air-conditioning and second by the smell of vinegar and herbs.

"Come in, Jonathan," says Alex, just out of sight in the kitchen. "I'm afraid this isn't finished."

"Doesn't matter," Jonathan replies, mystified, stumbling out of his shoes. "What are you making?"

"Something from Ukraine," he calls back, and there's the sound of sizzling as something gets flipped on the skillet. "I'm using vegetarian chicken, which I found in the shop you pointed out to me yesterday."

Jonathan takes a seat on the couch, too tired to protest or express his amazement. "How's the subway treating you?"

"I know how to get to the proper university buildings, if that's what you mean," Alex replies, and there's considerably more movement than there was before, and the sound of plates being laid out on the counter. "Do not be distressed. I have taken care of everything, and my course schedule is completed."

"Next time I need to get somewhere new, I'm handing you the map and shutting my mouth," Jonathan sighs, leaning back and closing his eyes. He's afraid to admit it, but he could get used to this sort of thing. At least for as long as Alex is a student, anyway. Beyond that, they might both have full-time, nine to five careers, and who knows where that's going to take them. If it takes them. Better not to speculate. "What days do you have class?" he asks instead, blinking at the blank whiteness of the ceiling.

"Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, but not Tuesday and Thursday. This dish is not anything special or definite," Alex says, his voice moving into the room, along with the smell of the food. "This is only something Mother would do, involving chicken with vinegar and herbs and mushrooms. I was not sure of the names of your herbs, so I had to smell them. I regret to inform you that you need more of them," he continues, setting the plates down on the coffee table. "Dinner is served."

"You didn't have to do this," Jonathan says, sitting up, taking the fork that Alex is offering him. Alex's smile is tired, but it's the best kind of satisfied there is.

"Your email said that you might be somewhat late, so it seemed logical," Alex says, already digging into the chicken—Quorn, by the look of it—concoction. He frowns a little, but he doesn't make a face or spit it out, so Jonathan can only assume that the experiment has been a reasonable success. And it has, he thinks, taking a bite. It's not bad at all, and the dumpling-things next to the chicken and mushrooms remind him of pierogies—and taste like them, too, it turns out.

"Did you make these, or...?"

"No, those were in the frozen foods section. I asked a confused salesperson if they had a thing like this, and fortunately, they did."

The piece of bread, Jonathan recognizes as a torn-off end from one of the baguettes made by a French bakery on the next block. By watching Alex, it's obvious that the excess vinegar broth is meant to be sopped up with the bread. It had never even occurred to Jonathan to consider whether Alex knew how to cook or not, but he's perfectly happy with the way in which he's found out. Jonathan takes another bite of the dumpling, trying to determine the full extent of what he knows how to make. Five or six dishes, maybe, but they're mostly vegetarian, and not so much focused on culture. He can pinpoint Asian influence, but that's about all.

"You're very silent," says Alex, his mouth half full. "Is the food all right?"

"It's fine," Jonathan tells him. "I was just trying to think of what I know how to make, and, frankly, I'm going to bore you to tears."

"I doubt this." Alex has cleared his plate except for the remainder of the bread, which he's using to swipe circles in what's left of the broth. "I have something else you might like. It's a kind of salad with beet-root and peas and onion, and it's best if you eat it cold."

"Sounds really good. Mom does this thing with noodles and oil and vinegar sometimes; it has almonds and shredded cabbage and maybe soy sauce, I don't know. Cold salads are really popular here, especially for picnics."

"I would like to do this in Central Park when it's not so hot," says Alex, reaching for Jonathan's plate. "Are you finished?"

"Yeah, but don't you dare do the dishes!" Jonathan warns him. "I want to hear about what you did today."

"I'll be back in a moment. There is coffee, and I have noticed your French press."

Jonathan leans back again, closing his eyes. _Could really get used to this, yes_.

 

**8 September 2001, 10:39 AM**

Of all the possible ways to wake Jonathan up, Alex is now certain that kissing the spot on his shoulder is the most foolproof. Predictably, Jonathan squirms and groans, and this is always useful. Alex decides that a direct approach is best, and rolls over so that Jonathan is pinned beneath him. The sensation is dizzying, still, and always humbling. Once, long ago, he had only dared to dream it.

"Not fair," Jonathan mutters, but he's already kissing Alex's neck. His hands are slow this morning, uncertain, or perhaps tired from a long week of typing. Alex draws the nearest one to his mouth and kisses Jonathan's wrist, trying to find the pulse point. _There_.

"On the contrary, I'm always fair," Alex informs him, leaning in for a kiss on the mouth. It's this moment that tells him what Jonathan is thinking, _if_ he is thinking, or if he's letting his body speak instead of his mind. This morning is a strange combination of the two, and Alex can sense that the thing they've been putting off is what's lingering in the darkness, waiting to be articulated.

"Okay, you got me on that one," says Jonathan, playfully biting Alex's lower lip. "What makes you fair today?"

"A bit of a change, perhaps." Alex nuzzles Jonathan's collarbone, finding one of the marks he'd accidentally left a few days ago with his fingertip. He licks the spot deliberately, considering the best way to proceed. If Jonathan isn't thinking the same thing, then it could go over horribly wrong. Throwing caution to the wind, he latches onto something softer—Jonathan's throat—and sucks as hard as he can.

"Hey, _easy_ ," Jonathan is saying, but his voice has changed in a familiar way and his hands are no longer lazy. They've moved from Alex's shoulder blades down to his hip bones, and Jonathan's blunt fingernails are digging into Alex's skin hard enough to leave marks.

"Forgive me," murmurs Alex, and kisses the spot before rolling back to where he started and cautiously nudging at Jonathan's shoulder. Confused at first, he turns onto his side, his face almost hidden in the pillow as Alex spoons up behind him, careful never to lose contact: one hand on Jonthan's arm, then on his belly and his cock, kisses and sighs in his messy hair. Jonathan naked is a much better look than Jonathan in his pajamas, and in case Alex has never told him this, he breathes it into Jonathan's ear.

"Oh, geez, glad you finally noticed," Jonathan gasps, laughing as Alex's hand splays on his thigh, tickling the inside. "You're a fucking tease this morning. What gives?"

His heartbeat racing, Alex pulls Jonathan in tight against him. "If—if it still makes your day—"

"Come on, it's all right," Jonathan says, almost in a whisper, as he draws Alex's hand from his thigh up to his mouth. "You could've just asked. I've been ready for it, even."

The surge of relief is almost too much, but the next question is still unbearable. "This is good," Alex says, trying to steady his breath, "but do you have—"

"I said I've been ready for it, didn't I?" There's amusement in Jonathan's voice, but also a tinge of fear.

"Ah, I understand," says Alex, letting his fingers trail down Jonathan's chest. "Should I..."

Before Alex can do anything else, Jonathan has squirmed off the bed and onto the floor. Alex can hear him rummaging in one of the lower drawers of the bed stand, occasionally swearing under his breath. He resurfaces several seconds later with a foil-wrapped condom and a bottle of...something. Vaguely, Alex remembers something about an oil-base being bad and a water-base being good, but it seems as if Jonathan has thought this through even more thoroughly than Alex has. Before Alex knows it, Jonathan has the condom unwrapped and is carefully—not expertly, for which Alex is very grateful—putting it on him. When it finally seems as if it wants to stay in place, Alex tugs Jonathan down for a kiss: slow and deep, searching, like the one he remembers in his old bedroom in Odessa before Mother sold the house and married Andriy. He suspects it will never leave him, and finding it in the brash light of a late-summer morning is almost unsettling.

"Not too tight, is it?" Jonathan asks, his breath coming high and shallow. He's somehow managed to get the lubricant on his fingers, because when his hand closes around Alex it's slippery, cold even through the latex. Alex screws his eyes shut and presses his mouth into the curve of Jonathan's neck, uncertain if he can proceed when Jonathan has been so generous that it has put him to shame. The impatience in Jonathan's fingers suggests that Jonathan will be very annoyed with him if he doesn't.

It's slow progress, getting them back to where they were—the lubricant drips all over the place, and it feels as if they're more than half covered in it by now. Alex doesn't know if this position is awkward, but it's better to find out sooner than later. He kisses Jonathan's shoulders, his hair, the back of his neck, and it seems to slow his breathing just a little. Alex doesn't know what to say, and he thinks through a number of options— _I love you, I'm sorry, I don't want to give you pain_ —but Jonathan interrupts his thoughts with a gasp. Alex withdraws his fingers—two, as far as he'd gotten—and sighs.

"Do you want this?" he asks instead.

" _Yes_ ," Jonathan says, without hesitation. "Do you?"

"Yes," Alex murmurs, "but I don't want—"

"I don't want to hear it," Jonathan says, reaching back to give Alex's hand a tight squeeze.

"I'm sorry."

"I love you."

"You, too," Alex whispers, and it takes only a moment to breach the door, for the dark to rise up and meet them.

 

**11 September 2001, 8:57 AM**

Jonathan's going to be late for work, and he knows it. Alex's first day without a class, and he's already taking advantage of the time to sleep in—and to seduce Jonathan, which would be the reason he's running late. The heat seems heavier than before, and Jonathan can only think that he'd rather turn around, head right back up the stairs, and haul Alex off for a shower. The colder, the better.

Around the first corner, he realizes that the footfalls he's been hearing aren't a jogger, but someone running at full tilt. Lisa almost collides with him, barely slowing down. It's only once they've caught each other by the shoulders that Jonathan realizes she's shaking, and the frantic string of words coming out of her mouth isn't some monologue on how their boss is going to reprimand him if he walks in late.

"...wasn't finished, so I had to go in early, right? I got there around seven-thirty, and Neveen had the television in the break room turned on, and after about an hour the newscasters sounded like they were starting to go a bit nuts over something, so we went—"

"Lisa, _stop_. What's going on?"

She shatters, then, the tears finally spilling over.

"A plane's crashed into one of the Trade Center towers. It happened about ten minutes ago. They're pretty sure it's going to fall. Upper management told us all to leave, but there's no use trying to travel. I don't think I'll be able to get home."

The words don't quite sink in, but it's not April Fool's Day, so she's probably telling the truth.

"Fuck, of all the freak accidents," Jonathan mutters, taking her by the arm. "Come on, you can stay with us till this blows over. You'd better call your mom."

At first, it's annoying to think he's getting his wish only on the condition of death, destruction, and a side of Lisa thrown in, but five seconds into Lisa's phone conversation with her mother and they're standing in the middle of the street gaping at each other as Lisa rattles off what her mother's saying on the other end.

"Wait, there's a _what_? Another plane? The same tower — _no_? The _other_ one? I don't understand, what are the chances of that? Is there something wrong with the fucking signal towers at JFK and La Guardia? What the _fuck_. Sorry, Mom, but I can't fathom —"

"Alex," Jonathan says, grabbing hold of her wrist. "Come _on_!"

By the time they get to the apartment, Lisa and her mother are both in hysterics, and the word _terrorists_ has come out of Lisa's mouth one too many times for Jonathan's comfort. That's all it could be, really; there's no chance of two planes crashing simultaneously like that by sheer accident. Deep down, Jonathan knows he ought to be worried about Josh, but his father's out of town again and his mother only works part-time these days, and she makes a point of seeing Josh off to school. If it's a normal morning, they'll have had the television on, or the neighbors would have called, or his grandmother —his _grandmother —_

"I _said_ , give me your fucking keys, goddamn it!" Lisa is shouting, shaking him. She's no longer on the phone, and, at this rate, they're going to wake Jonathan's neighbors. As Jonathan pulls the keys clumsily out of his pocket, he's aware that it's not an issue: there are already people in the hallways exchanging fantic pieces of information, very few of which match and even fewer of which make sense.

"All right, we're in," he says, opening the door. Alex is standing in the kitchen doorway, wearing one of Jonathan's old t-shirts and a pair of his boxers. He looks more confused than frightened, and it takes Jonathan several seconds to realize it's because Lisa is standing beside him and shaking with silent sobs.

"Jonathan, has something occurred?" asks Alex, hesitantly.

"You," Jonathan says to Lisa. "Sit down and turn on the television." Obviously too shell-shocked to do otherwise, she obeys, finding the remote control with practiced ease. It takes her a while to find CNN, but when she does, the room fills with all of the same words that Jonathan had heard in the hallway. Alex takes a step towards the television, but Jonathan grabs his elbow and hauls him into the kitchen. "We," he says, firmly, "are going to make coffee, and I'm going to tell you what's happening, okay?"

"Okay," echoes Alex, his voice so diminished that the icy patch in Jonathan's chest expands painfully.

"You know the World Trade Center, right? The two big towers on the skyline?"

"Yes," Alex says, filling Jonathan's teapot with water. "They are in every picture of New York."

"Somebody's flown planes into them. One right after the other, two different planes," Jonathan says, rummaging in the cupboard, trying to keep his voice steady. "It's probably a terrorist attack, because I don't see how it could be anything else. Those buildings are probably going to fall down within the next—"

It isn't what Alex is saying that stops Jonathan cold, but what he _isn't_ saying. He's never seen an expression like that on anyone's face before, and it's then that Jonathan's phone starts ringing and Lisa starts screaming.

 

**10:35 AM**

"No, Dad, I'm _fine_ ," Jonathan is saying into the phone, for the third time, as his mother and grandmother have already called. From his spot on the couch, Alex has a full view of the television screen, and he can't seem to pull his eyes away. After the second tower collapsed—Alex hadn't blinked or breathed, just as he hadn't done for the repeat footage of the second plane collision—Jonathan had hit the mute button and told Lisa that if she didn't go shut herself in the bedroom with the computer until she'd managed to calm down a little, he was going to make her walk home, regardless of the water between here and there. At first, they thought she'd been freaking out because of something on the television, but it turned out that she couldn't dial anybody on her cell phone, which was somehow even _worse_.

"No," Jonathan is saying, his voice growing harder. " _No_. I don't have any plans, and _yes_ , I do have enough food for three people. I think. If I don't, there are plenty of stores just up the street. What? Stock up? Dad, this isn't fucking World War Three, this is—sorry. I'm _sorry_. I'll do that. I'm going to have to leave Alex here with Lisa, though, because she's out of her mind. Yes, I know. Good thing. The rest of my co-workers? I don't know, but I don't have room to run an entire emergency shelter out of this apartment. _Sorry_. I'm trying my best. You're lucky you're not here, trust me. Bye."

When Jonathan finally collapses on the cushion beside Alex, it feels as if an entire lifetime has passed in a little under an hour. They curl together without a word, clinging and shaking, and Alex understands that sending Lisa away was the best possible thing that Jonathan could have done for all of them. If she'd seen Jonathan collapse...

"Dad says it would be wise to go out and stock up on food," Jonathan says against Alex's shoulder, his voice raw. "You know, just enough for the next few days, in case transit remains impossible, and it's really not a matter of 'in case'. It will. Drop the equivalent of a bomb on Manhattan, and that's going to fuck everything until kingdom come. If car traffic isn't getting in and out, then nothing else is running."

"When they wake up, my family will hear about this," Alex says, unable to think of anything else. "They will think I'm dead."

"Fuck, _right_ ," says Jonathan, disentangling himself from Alex, fishing around on the floor for the telephone. "At least the land lines aren't screwed, or I don't think so. You should call them, the sooner the better."

Alex accepts the phone hesitantly, glancing up at Jonathan.

"What should I tell them? Do they know who did this?"

"No, but there are probably suspicions, and I'm guessing they're centered on the Middle East."

"Right. This is not Ukraine."

"No, I somehow doubt they'd blame your country. I don't want to hear anything else until they've had time to gather more information, which is the other reason I shut the sound off. I bet Lisa's on my computer, though, surfing away, and when she comes back, she's going to have more rumors than you can shake a stick at."

"This is not good," Alex sighs, already starting to dial. "You have international calling, yes?"

"Yes," says Jonathan, already grabbing his keys off the table and searching for his shoes.

"You will go to the shops, then, and get food?"

"Yes," Jonathan repeats, sounding as if this is all he can bear to say without breaking. He leans over the back of the couch and kisses the top of Alex's head, squeezing him by the shoulders for a brief moment. "I won't be very long, unless there are a lot of people with the same idea, and I suspect there might be. If Lisa comes back, try to calm her down. I think you'll do a better job than I did."

Alex takes hold of Jonathan's forearm, twining their fingers.

"I'll try to explain this to Mother, but it will be difficult."

"It's already difficult. Look at it as the kind of situation that can't possibly get worse."

"Right," Alex says, and they let go of each other at the same time, no words needed.

 

**11:42 AM**

"You're not going to believe this," Lisa says, running up the hall. Jonathan looks up from unpacking groceries—all that his $28.19 in cash could buy—in time to see her grab the remote control off the coffee table and fling herself down on the couch. She brings the sound back, turning it up full blast. "There is some more _serious_ shit happening."

"Turn it down," says Jonathan, sharply, and she obeys without question. "What aren't we going to believe?" He glances at Alex, who has been sitting on the kitchen floor with his knees drawn up and his hands wrapped around a mug of tea for the better part of twenty minutes since Jonathan's return. The conversation with his mother had been upsetting; she hadn't wanted him to hang up, and then she had tried to make him promise he'd fly home as soon as they were letting planes travel in and out of JFK again. It was at that point that Jonathan had returned, overladen with bags, to discover Alex pacing around the apartment, sobbing barely coherent Russian into the phone.

"A third plane crashed," Lisa says, her voice surprisingly clear, edged with something like puzzled excitement. "In a field, in Pennsylvania. The crew realized that the pilot was trying to fly it into a building, or something, and managed to crash it in the field."

Alex closes his eyes as if he's gone dizzy, steadying himself with one hand on the linoleum. Jonathan takes hold of the mug and sets it aside, sinking down beside him.

"Look, this could get a lot more twisted before the day is out," Jonathan says, gathering Alex close, trying to swallow the tears that he's been fighting off for nearly two hours. "It _will_ get a lot more twisted, especially before the week is out. But it's not going ot last, it's _not_. Worse things than this have happened," he says, lowering his voice. "We of all people should know that."

Alex takes a hiccuping breath, turns his head aside, and mutters, "I did not think _we_ would see —"

"We're alive, Alex. Look at me. We're _alive_."

"They think it was headed for Washington," Lisa shouts. "That makes sense, though! You'd fly over Pennsylvania if you were going—"

"Shut up, or I'm making you go back to the bedroom!" Jonathan shouts back, finding that the tears have won.

"You can't _make_ me do anything!"

"This is not going well, Jonathan," Alex whispers. Jonathan wipes his eyes with the nearest available cloth, which happens to be one of the dish towels draped over the cupboard door below the sink, and stands up straight. Lisa is standing up, too, staring at him over the back of the couch with her hands planted on her hips and her eyes throwing off sparks.

"This is my house. You're going to be eating my food, and you're at the good graces of not only me, but my partner as well," says Jonathan, as evenly as he can manage. "No, I can't _make_ you do anything, but it's my duty to keep some semblance of order around here, because, frankly, I've got a bigger problem on my hands than fucking plane crashes or terrorist attacks or whatever the _fuck_ is going on, okay? I'm all the family Alex has here, and God knows what kind of treatment foreigners in this country are going to get over the next few months thanks to the fucking nut-jobs in the White House! Not on my watch, all right? Not a _chance_."

Lisa's hands have gone from her hips to being wrapped around her middle, and she's staring at the couch cushions.

"Let me help with those," she says, and walks quietly into the kitchen.

 

**1:26 PM**

"I'm not going to tell you again. Turn that off, and get over here," Jonathan says, holding pulling out the chair next to the one Alex is already sitting in. "I didn't make these for nothing."

"Coming," says Lisa, apologetically, and drops the remote on the couch on her way over. "It's just, God, the death toll estimates are unbelievable, and the people who managed to get _out_ are telling the most incredible —"

"I'm calling a television ban until five," says Jonathan, almost as if he can't believe he's saying it. Alex isn't sure it will make any difference, as there's still the computer in the bedroom. Maybe he won't mind Lisa using it, as long as she doesn't keep giving them updates.

"This is probably wise," Alex sighs, trying to swallow another bite of his sandwich. He feels so empty that he isn't sure food is going to suffice, and he isn't sure that Jonathan's actually hungry, either. Lisa, on the other hand, seems to be starving; within a minute of sitting down, half of her sandwich is gone.

"This is the biggest thing that's ever happened in our lifetime," she says, giving Jonathan a steady look. For once, her tone isn't excited, or devastated, or anything. "I'm sorry, but I can't seem to wrap my head around this, and I want to know what's happening _as_ it's happening, okay? Do you realize we're probably going to have an issue on this when all's said and done? I need to see the images. I need to remember them. This cover's going to kill us, Daniel and Neveen and me, I can tell you right now. You can call me freaky, or obsessed, or whatever, but you're not going to prevent me from using your computer, got it?"

"I never said you couldn't use the computer," says Jonathan, taking a long drink of water. "I just don't want you running out here every five minutes with some new, gory details. The details keep changing, and my nerves are _this_ close to snapping, and I don't want you upsetting Alex. That's _all_."

Alex glances back and forth between them, uncertain of whether he ought to intervene or contribute. He doesn't especially want updates; he's in agreement with Jonathan with regards to waiting until they've had time to get a clear picture. Unlike Lisa, he can't _stand_ to see any more images, at least not for the moment. Seeing them is like watching some of his happiest memories of New York fall to pieces, and they evoke the ghosts of memories that he shouldn't have, ones that he and Jonathan —for better or for worse—share.

"Good," Lisa says, rising, taking her plate with her. "It's settled. I'm on stake-out as of _now_."

Alex waits until she's gone to meet Jonathan's eyes. He didn't realize he'd been holding his breath, but when his lungs fill, it's painful enough to make him cough on the remainder of the last bite he'd taken.

"You don't have to tell me," Jonathan says, shoving his unfinished plate toward the center of the table. He offers Alex his unfinished glass of water, his brows knit with worry.

"I know why you're doing this," Alex says, accepting the water. After a few swallows, he continues, "But I hope that you will not be so hard on her, as I think she's correct about the magazine."

"I _know_ she's right about the magazine," Jonathan says, folding his arms across his chest. "It's annoying, and what's worse, I'm too much of a wreck to be staring it in the face just yet, and I'm worried sick about what else your mother's going to say to upset you."

Alex sets down the glass, reaching across the table. Jonathan unfolds his arms and meets Alex halfway, resting his head in his free hand. "Mother will say many things to upset me, and you will have to forgive me for being upset," explains Alex, wearily. "She will continue to tell me that she wants me to come home, that it is not safe, but I will continue to tell her that this is foolishness, and she will continue to tell me that I'm a lunatic for not listening to her. This is far-away and frightening; she does not understand it. I'm hoping the rest of the world will make sense of this before America does, as that would help her to see what's really going on. We can't see what's going on; we're stuck in the middle of it."

"Forest for the trees," Jonathan mutters, sighing. "Never a truer thing said."

Alex frowns. "What?"

"Can't see the forest for the trees," says Jonathan, almost smiling. "It's an expression. If you're in the middle of the forest, all you can see is trees. You have no concept of what the whole forest looks like."

"Ah," Alex replies, rising to his feet, tugging on Jonathan's hand. "I'm not so hungry, either."

"There's nothing to do, and I'm not turning the television back on."

"I'm not asking you to do this," Alex says, managing to pull Jonathan to his feet. "I'm asking you to come sit with me. I'm very tired from this. I think we should sleep."

"If anybody's got the right idea, it's you."

Jonathan is easily led to the couch, and even more easily lulled to sleep. Alex lies awake for a long while with the daylight heavy on the backs of his eyelids, wondering what they've done, that the world has come to this.

 

**4:46 PM**

" _Pssst_. Jonathan," Lisa whispers, shaking him gently by the shoulder.

"Hm?" he mumbles, starting awake. "What's wrong?" Alex is sleeping soundly, his weight solid and reassuring between Jonathan and the back of the couch.

"Nothing," she whispers, "I thought I'd come check on you guys. I've got to tell you, though, this entire situation is FUBAR. Way, _way_ beyond anybody's wildest nightmares."

Latent curiosity wells up and out of control, past Jonathan's lips before he can bite his tongue.

"Any suspects?"

"Al-Qaeda. Afghanistan was one of the first countries to send official condolences, and there's already talk of some plot being uncovered. Nothing definite, but this is what they're saying. The news is all rumors."

Jonathan fishes in his memory for names, dates, and incidents, but all he's coming up with is the foggy recollection of some previous attempt on the WTC that got foiled, plus the Oklahoma City bombings. "Huh," he says, stretching against Alex. "Any news on what the fuck's happening in Manhattan?"

"Too much," says Lisa, grimly. "I won't speak of it. I'm stuck here for a couple days at least."

"Swell," mutters Jonathan, but he intends it more as a tired joke than anything else. "At least we've got food."

"Speaking of which, I'm absolutely starving," admits Lisa, apologetically. Her features soften, almost like Jonathan's mother's when she used to tuck Jonathan into bed as a child. "Hey, Alex."

"Hey," Alex echoes, his voice thick with sleep. "How is your stake-out?"

"Depressing as all get-out."

Jonathan sits up, rubbing his eyes, and Alex isn't far behind him. "Right. Well, what should I make for dinner?"

"I can do it," says Alex, one hand on Jonathan's arm. "You should not have to do everything."

"It's no problem," Jonathan replies, rising to his feet. "Something with rice, maybe?"

"If you ask me, we should get out of here," Lisa says. "No offense, but I'm tired of staring at your boring walls, and it's not like all the restaurants have shut down. If anything, they're in desperate need of local business, and people are probably finding this more bearable if they get out and talk about it."

Jonathan turns the suggestion over in his mind a few times, then glances at Alex.

"If anybody has the right idea," he says in Russian, giving Jonathan a coaxing look. "She may be right, you realize. I wouldn't want to be wrong in a situation like this, but I think we're going crazy because we're shut up in a small space with a crazy bitch."

It's all Jonathan can do not to fall apart laughing. He manages to gather enough of his Russian together to say something roughly like, _Yes, yes, it's exactly like that, and we've come to this_.

"Anybody want to give me a hand here?" Lisa asks, already swinging Jonathan's key ring around her index finger. "I didn't understand a word of that. What's it going to be? East Village?"

"That place," Alex says, struggling to remember. "It's called something rhyming with—"

"Dojo," Jonathan blurts out. "They'll be open. New York could be in nuclear winter, and they'd still be open, mostly because the entire staff is fucking crazy, and also because the neighborhood would explode into a mass riot if they were to close. What'd be left of it, anyway."

"We should do this, I think," said Alex. "It would be almost like returning to the beginning."

"I guess it would," says Lisa, thoughtfully. "That's where the three of us first hung out, isn't it?"

"If we're going to get a table, or even a place on the floor, we'd better go," Jonathan says, tugging on Alex's t-shirt sleeve. "I hate to say it, but you should at least throw on some jeans."

Alex glances up at him, half smiling, and it's the most wonderful thing Jonathan's ever seen.

"You don't wish for me to remain like this so you can show me off?"

"Not especially," Jonathan replies. "I'm a writer. I prefer to encourage people to be imaginative."

"I _will_ seduce that bartender," Lisa is muttering under her breath, already halfway to the door. "I will, I will, I _will_. It's the end of the fucking world! Who _wouldn't_ want to get laid?"

"Not me," says Jonathan, grinning, and follows Alex back the hallway and into the dark.


	11. Postscript: Snippets of Hereafter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These various addenda were written in response to Alex/Jonathan requests from friends.

 

 

**Behind the Times**

_[dug out of a drawer, half forgotten, dated 14 February 2000]_

I HAVE NOT FORGIVEN YOUR LOW OPINION OF MY COUNTRY'S COMMUNICATIVE TECHNOLOGY STOP THEREFORE I WILL INSTRUCT YOU IN WHAT IS TRULY ANCIENT STOP I AM WILLING TO BET THAT NO ONE IN AMERICA HAS SENT A SPECIMEN SUCH AS THIS FOR MORE THAN A HUNDRED YEARS STOP THIS PROVES UKRAINE HAS THE MOST PREMIUM MISSIVE METHODS OF BOTH TIME PERIODS STOP AND IF YOU THINK THIS IS A VALENTINE MESSAGE WELL MAYBE YOU ARE RIGHT STOP NO DON'T STOP

ALEX

**His Own Medicine**

  
  
"What is it?" Alex croaked, hesitantly taking hold of the spoon and sniffing the contents. "It smells like cheap vodka, only it is green —” he checked the price tag “—and even more cheap.”  
  
"Cough syrup," said Jonathan, taking hold of Alex's wrist, urging the spoon up to his mouth. "It'll stop the coughing _and_ make you sleep."  
  
"I'm intending no offense, but I think cheap vodka will do the same thing and also taste better."  
  
" _I'd_ like to get some sleep, too, you know," Jonathan sighed. "Just try?"  
  
"As your brother keeps saying, _whatever_ ," Alex muttered, and downed it.

 

**Back to Earth**

  
  
Alex shut the door behind them much harder than was necessary, then leaned against it for a few seconds.  
  
"Is your city _always_ like this in the holiday gush?"  
  
"Rush," Jonathan said, letting their bags spill haphazardly from his arms and onto the couch. "And yes, it is."  
  
Alex tugged off his hat and unzipped his coat, still frowning.  
  
"Why must they do this, everything purchased at the final minute?"  
  
"Because people are lazy," replied Jonathan, shrugging. "Like me, I suppose."  
  
"In Ukraine, many of us manufacture gifts ourselves. It is a sign of respect."  
  
"Would you call this $100 pair of jeans for your brother a sign of respect?"  
  
"No," said Alex, quickly, snagging the garment out of Jonathan's hands. "That differs."

 

**Trials and Tribulations**

  
  
"Of all the trials and tribulations necessary to running this house," Alex sighed, shaking out a pair of wet jeans, "this one would be my least favorite."  
  
Jonathan looked up from his typing and smirked, watching Alex wrestle the garment onto their flimsy drying-rack. Laundry wasn't _his_ favorite task, either, so he'd give Alex a bit longer to complain before wrapping up the chapter and offering his help.  
  
"Your silence," Alex warned him, wagging a boxer-shorts covered finger, "speaks voluminously." He shook out the underwear and forlornly draped it next to the jeans.  
  
Jonathan rolled his eyes and hit _save_ , hastily snapping his laptop shut. If there was anything Alex _was_ good at, after all this time, it was laying on the guilt-trips.

 

**Read My Lips**

  
  
_This is foolish_ , Alex mouths, tapping on the glass. _It does not fit_.  
  
Jonathan frowns and shifts his weight on the springy grass, watching as Alex pulls down the bamboo blinds they'd picked up at Ikea. He fiddles with the fixture before giving up, fixing Jonathan with a helpless look and an expansive shrug.  
  
"It's okay," says Jonathan, loudly. "We'll have professionals do it."  
  
Alex gives him a confused grimace. _What?_  
  
"I said," Jonathan shouts, "we'll have professionals do it!"  
  
 _Ah_. Alex nods, looking a trifle defeated, dropping the blinds on the floor. Getting the ground-level apartment had been mostly his idea. Jonathan had only been won over when he'd seen how nice the place was. _I am sorry_.  
  
Jonathan steps up to the window, his mouth almost touching it.  
  
"Don't worry! It's my money."  
  
Alex glances up, smiling hesitantly, before stepping up and leaning in.  
  
 _But the blinds were purchased by me_.  
  
"I'll think of some way to make it up to you," Jonathan says, ignoring his childhood memories of being yelled at by his grandmother as he presses his lips to the glass.  
  
 _You are still having shit for brains_ , Alex tells him, but follows suit anyway.

 

**Sex On the Beach**

  
  
"Sunscreen?" asked Jonathan, tossing the bottle at Alex, who was seated on the bed surrounded by swim trunks, beach towels, random summer clothes, a map of Sicily, and assorted guide-books. He was ticking items off of Jonathan's list.  
  
"Not too strong," he said, making a neat catch. "I would like to acquire a tan."  
  
"That's not good for you," Jonathan said, rummaging in the top drawer of his desk. "Have you seen our passports anywhere? If we don't remember those, we're fucked."  
  
Alex waggled his eyebrows. "I would very much like to be fucked anyway."  
  
"Oh, ick," Jonathan muttered, finding the passports under a stack of old water bills. He threw those at Alex, too. "Do you honestly want to risk sand in awkward places?"  
  
Alex ducked the documents with a grin, letting them land on the pillows behind him.  
  
"Who said I was speaking of sex on the beach? _Or_ in awkward places?"  
  
"I don't know," Jonathan said, leaning against the desk with his arms folded across his chest. "Given some of our history, I'd assume maybe that was a fantasy of yours."  
  
"Sicilian beaches," Alex sniffed, "are not the same as Ukrainian beaches."  
  
"Fair enough," said Jonathan, smiling. "At least you're less likely to get burned there."  
  
"Not really," Alex replied, suddenly all seriousness. "It's there I burned the most."

 

**Reciprocity**

  
  
It's not the part where Jonathan works overtime two or three nights a week at the editorial office that bothers Alex. No, far from it. It's the part where he's so tired when he gets back that he mutters one- and two-word responses to everything Alex asks him, including what he wants for dinner. Which, as you can imagine, is really very difficult to work with when you only know how to make two or three dishes to begin with, especially when the two words do not figure into any of those said dishes.  
  
It makes Alex cross, and then Jonathan starts to notice and asks concerned questions of his own, at which point Alex is _so_ cross that he can't muster his own answers. On those nights, they're pretty lucky if either one of them ends up in the kitchen. One or the other ends up pointedly ordering Chinese take-out (Alex knows all the New York jokes about Jews now, especially that one), and that's the end of it.  
  
However, Alex has also mastered the art of make-up sex.

 

 

 

*

  
  
It's not the part where Alex has evening classes twice a week that bothers Jonathan. No, really: it's the part where Alex gets so wrapped up in his homework assignments _after_ class that he continues to work on them throughout dinner and, sometimes, long past when Jonathan would have liked them both to be in bed. That's part of the trouble, too: he and Alex have radically different ideas about what the word _bedtime_ even means.

For Jonathan, it's something like 11 PM. For Alex, it could be anywhere between midnight and three in the morning.

It's another inevitable night of take-out from Ollie's, which Jonathan doesn't mind, because that's his favorite Chinese in the city. Alex knows it. However, he's also got this undertone that he uses when he places the order - the tone that says I'm-doing-this-because-I-know-the-joke-about-Jews-liking-Chinese-food. Frankly, it's annoying.  
  
But, for what comes afterward, Jonathan finds he can forgive Alex _anything_.

 

**Everything You Never Wanted to Know**

  
  
In that moment, all Jonathan can think about is the blank, disbelieving look on the boy's face. Breaking it to his own kid brother had been pretty simple: Josh had actually seemed rather impressed, and maybe even secretly proud, that somebody in his family was gay. Bisexual. Whatever. Parsing out what they were to everybody else made Jonathan's head hurt. At least to each other they could just be _themselves_.  
  
Igor clears his throat and focuses on the far corner of the room, somewhere over Alex's shoulder. Alex shifts next to Jonathan, giving off that unmistakable I-want-to-vanish- _now_ vibe. Jonathan wants nothing more than to hold him.  
  
"This is why, I believe," he says in halting English that is, nonetheless, far cleaner than Alex's was when Jonathan had first met him, "Mother is crying some nights when she speaks of you to the woman from next door. I come into the kitchen to get water, but they do not let me hear. But when I leave again, Jonathan, I hear your name as well."  
  
 _Oh fucking hell_ , Jonathan thinks, but instead, he nods mutely.  
  
"She has never told me this," Alex says, his accent unexpectedly thick. He's lived in America for two years now, and those two years have not been easy. He'd hardly been there a month when 9/11 hit, and they were staring down the barrel of potential visa-renewal problems if he didn't find a placement by the time his program was finished. And on that, the clock was ticking at an uncomfortable pace.  
  
"She does not wish to upset you," Igor says, making hard eye contact with Alex. "She likes to know you are happy. But she is very worried about this kind of thing."  
  
"I'm sorry," Jonathan interjects, no longer able to hold back, "but what does she mean by _this kind of thing_? It's not like I'm keeping him here as my sex slave."  
  
At Alex's sharp intake of breath, he instantly regrets having said it. But goddamn, what the _fuck_? This isn't some bad porno flick they've stumbled into. This is _life_.  
  
"In Ukraine, you can die for this," Igor points out. "It is very dangerous."  
  
Alex closes his eyes, nods solemnly. "I'm sorry that she continues to be so concerned. Please understand, though, that this is America. They are more enlightened here."  
  
"Are the ones who beat people to death enlightened?" asks Igor, point-blank. For being in his early teens, he's impressively streetwise and reads a lot on the internet.  
  
"No," Jonathan says. "They're assholes."  
  
At that, unexpectedly, Igor cracks a smile.  
  
"Yes, I think so, too. So are the ones in Ukraine."  
  
"The east coast is safest," Alex reassures him, his eyes brightening with this thin, tenuous thread of hope. "That's where we are right now. Nobody so far has insulted me for my questionable taste in romantic partners," he adds, grinning wryly, and takes hold of Jonathan's hand. He squeezes so hard that their knuckles go white.  
  
Igor nods, his eyes drifting slowly to the floor. The smile hasn't quite left his lips, but the shadow of fear has crept in again, ever so slightly. "Mother will not be able to make you come home to have a wedding. In fact, you cannot marry at all."  
  
"Hey, we're working on that," Jonathan reassures him, reaching out to muss the kid's hair. "Maybe in a few years she'll be able to come here and see us have one."  
  
Igor looks up and makes a face. "But how is that possible?"  
  
"This is America," Alex says, as if it's the answer to everything.  
  
"I tell Mother that having you here is a great honor," Igor tells him. "I also tell her that we are very lucky that you and Jonathan make visits. It means you do not forget."  
  
"Forget what?" Jonathan asks. "That we're family? No way are we gonna forget _that_."  
  
"No," Alex says, turning to him, and it's the first time he's noticed the faintest trace of tears in Alex's eyes. "It means we do not forget that this was not easy."  
  
 _No shit, Sherlock,_ Jonathan wants to mutter, _anything_ to lighten the mood, but what he does then is lean over and plant a brief kiss on Alex's lips, right in front of Iggy, because if the kid is going to come to their wedding or civil partnership ceremony or whatever someday, he had sure as fuck better get used to it.  
  
"Ew," Igor says, but there's laughter in his voice.  
  
Jonathan can't help but join in, and Alex isn't far behind him.

 

**Belonging**

  
  
"Let me do it," Alex protests, snatching the lighter out of Jonathan's hand.  
  
"Any excuse to play with fire," Jonathan says, folding his arms across his chest.  
  
"No, it is because you did the first one," Alex informs him, holding the newly glowing _shamash_ up close to study it. As a child, he'd been fascinated by all of the different colors in a flame. Iggy couldn't be bothered. "My turn."  
  
"Look, it's getting dark," Jonathan sighs. "We haven't got all night."  
  
"Of course we have," Alex says, lighting the second taper. "No one here but us."  
  
All the household present; not a soul unaccounted for. _As it should be_ , Alex thinks, taking hold of Jonathan's arms as they wrap around him from behind. He watches the twin flames flicker in the window-glass, grinning at what he sees.

 

**White Lines**

  
  
"You can't have read it," Jonathan said, running his fingers through his unkempt hair. "You can't possibly. I know you. There's no way you read as fast as I do."  
  
"It's four in the fucking morning, and you gave this to me at ten o'clock," Alex pointed out, waving the dog-eared manuscript in Jonathan's direction as if attempting to shoo an insect. "You have been in and out of here every forty-five minutes, and I have done my best to be ignorant of —no, I mean to say _to ignore you_."  
  
"You did a really good job, by the way," Jonathan offers, cracking an exhausted smile.  
  
"Of what? Ignoring you? With literature as resplendent as this, what could be simpler?"  
  
"See, now you're just mocking me."  
  
"That, too, has always been easy."  
  
"Aren't you going to be as up-front as you used to be in your letters?"  
  
Alex set the manuscript down and scooted over until their thighs touched.  
  
"No, but I can be sideways, if you like," he said, and kissed Jonathan's temple.  
  
"It's shit, isn't it," said Jonathan, dismally. "Nobody's going to publish that trash."  
  
"On the contrary, trash is very much what people like," said Alex. "We'll get rich."  
  
"You wish," Jonathan said, turning his head for another kiss.  
  
"You're an asshole at times in the text, but at least you are _my_ asshole."  
  
"That's so wrong. Do you have any idea how fucked-up that sounds?"  
  
"Yes," said Alex, yawning. "First, let's get some sleep. Then, I will show you."

 

**Man Flu**

  
  
It's an argument in nasty, rapid Russian, probably because Iggy likes to resort to that these days when he's feeling vindictive, which he often does when he comes to visit, which is about twice a year. Alex, in his irritation, is responding in a real mish-mash: English and Ukrainian and gestures only Jonathan knows how to decode.  
  
"Mother shouldn't have let you come like this," Alex insists (in Ukrainian).  
  
"Mother can't afford to switch my plane tickets to a week later just because I'm sick!"  
  
"Clearly, or else you wouldn't be lying here on my couch moaning."  
  
"It's Jonathan's couch, not yours. How much of this shit is actually yours, anyway?"  
  
"Pretty soon?" Alex shouts back (in Russian, finally). " _Half of it_ , you little prick."  
  
It takes the kid a few minutes to process that, but he does, and it's priceless.  
  
Grinning, Jonathan shuts the bedroom door and decides to read until they're finished.

 

**Unknowing**

  
  
It's years until they return to the place, to the monument: ten years, almost to the day, even though they've been back to Ukraine many times in between. Alex's family are surprising in their demands, and touching in their hospitality. Jonathan had expected he'd never be fully accepted, especially in the wake of those first few rough years when they hadn't even known if Alex would find employment soon enough after completing his degree to stay in the States. They'd had their fair share of nail-biting. Alex says that he feels strange now, setting foot here with the knowledge that he's actually got U.S. Citizenship, no questions asked.  
  
"What would they do, I wonder," he says softly, staring out across the water, "if they knew?"  
  
"If they knew you'd gone to America?" Jonathan asks, brushing a piece of grass off his trousers.  
  
Alex nods. "Many of them longed to go, but didn't make it. I think I would give anything to change it."  
  
Jonathan takes his hand, unable to think of anything appropriate to say. His own blood had longed to go, and some of them had made it. He wonders what they would have thought of his longing to return, of the very fact of his sitting there.  
  
"They understand this," says Alex, absently, to no one in particular. "They must."  
  
It's Jonathan's turn to nod, still wordless, and turn his head to Alex's shoulder. They'll wait until sunset and stay until morning, and Jonathan's prayers, all silent, will sink into the shadowed depths of time. There, he knows, they'll be heard.


End file.
